Sunday, June 24, 2007
Grand And Noble Achievements
This man has about three hundred million dollars... say it slowly... threeeee huuuuundred miiiiillion dooooollars... because he made a little white ball go into a hole lots of times. Clever man. Clever mankind.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
A Festival And A Review
How good does this arts festival look? I had to read the profiles of four of the 100 artists involved to do a quick Q & A for them for a feature for the mag. They all get a week or so to work on their various performances/installations/ visual projects or whatever, and then there's a big day where you wander around soaking up all the works you've watched take shape through the week. Fun stuff. Had to do a group of musicians working with a film maker, a VJ, a trio of actors making short films and a collective who make site-specific sculptures.
Also, here, below, is a theatre review appearing in the current issue of Drum.
I'm still getting my head around the role of a reviewer but ultimately come down to this: I'm a punter telling other punters what my experience was like and whether I enjoyed a performance or not. If a performance irritates me so much that I am tempted to walk out because I have better things to do with my time, then I'm pretty well obligated to telling other punters that that's how I felt.
But I get this residual thing where I wonder if I've been too harsh. I think of what the performer will think when they read what this nobody reviewer thought of their creation. I hate that period between sending the review in and waiting for it to come out.
Then there's also the worry of what if I missed the point? What if I got it wrong?
I know - everyone says you just have to be honest and everything, there's no right or wrong really, just your opinion. But that's easy to say when you're not the one putting your name and credibility on the line. When you bag something that has had amazing press build up you will have doubts about whether you got it right.
But I wrote what I honestly felt and this was the result. At the end I'll link to another review of the same performance that came out in on the same day in a bigger paper. Pretty interesting.
EIGENSINN
It’s not a good sign when members of the audience are stifling laughter in the opening minutes. Not laughing because the performance is humorous; stifling laughter because they are watching pretentious wank that appears to be taking itself seriously - even if it does have a couple of pretty lame attempts at humour.
The theme is based on a Grimm Brothers story, The Wilful Child. God knows how or why this story has survived.
Credit where it’s due, Germay’s Antje Pfundtner is an amazing physical performer. I loved it when she danced. Her movements were absolutely captivating. She has obviously closely studied deformity and it’s quite amazing to watch her physical transformation from the graceful to the grotesque. She was pure spastic elegance. (That’s more a compliment than it sounds).
But when she wasn’t moving she was just plain annoying. Those stifled laughs from the shiny and quiffed audience members in the front row were the wrong kind of laughs, and they spread throughout the audience. And never more so than that excruciatingly long segment when she sat at a school desk and did nothing.
And nothing.
And nothing.
And nothing.
And still nothing.
Annoying, no?
Okay, so as an interpretation of the Grimm’s micro morality story it was more interesting than the story itself. But as an hour’s entertainment it was - like an indulgent child – pretty hard to take. And sure, that’s the whole point and it’s art so it’s meant to be challenging, but man you should have heard the politeness in the applause at the end of the show.
The Studio season over.
LEE BEMROSE
And here is the other review in the bigger paper.
Also, here, below, is a theatre review appearing in the current issue of Drum.
I'm still getting my head around the role of a reviewer but ultimately come down to this: I'm a punter telling other punters what my experience was like and whether I enjoyed a performance or not. If a performance irritates me so much that I am tempted to walk out because I have better things to do with my time, then I'm pretty well obligated to telling other punters that that's how I felt.
But I get this residual thing where I wonder if I've been too harsh. I think of what the performer will think when they read what this nobody reviewer thought of their creation. I hate that period between sending the review in and waiting for it to come out.
Then there's also the worry of what if I missed the point? What if I got it wrong?
I know - everyone says you just have to be honest and everything, there's no right or wrong really, just your opinion. But that's easy to say when you're not the one putting your name and credibility on the line. When you bag something that has had amazing press build up you will have doubts about whether you got it right.
But I wrote what I honestly felt and this was the result. At the end I'll link to another review of the same performance that came out in on the same day in a bigger paper. Pretty interesting.
EIGENSINN
It’s not a good sign when members of the audience are stifling laughter in the opening minutes. Not laughing because the performance is humorous; stifling laughter because they are watching pretentious wank that appears to be taking itself seriously - even if it does have a couple of pretty lame attempts at humour.
The theme is based on a Grimm Brothers story, The Wilful Child. God knows how or why this story has survived.
Credit where it’s due, Germay’s Antje Pfundtner is an amazing physical performer. I loved it when she danced. Her movements were absolutely captivating. She has obviously closely studied deformity and it’s quite amazing to watch her physical transformation from the graceful to the grotesque. She was pure spastic elegance. (That’s more a compliment than it sounds).
But when she wasn’t moving she was just plain annoying. Those stifled laughs from the shiny and quiffed audience members in the front row were the wrong kind of laughs, and they spread throughout the audience. And never more so than that excruciatingly long segment when she sat at a school desk and did nothing.
And nothing.
And nothing.
And nothing.
And still nothing.
Annoying, no?
Okay, so as an interpretation of the Grimm’s micro morality story it was more interesting than the story itself. But as an hour’s entertainment it was - like an indulgent child – pretty hard to take. And sure, that’s the whole point and it’s art so it’s meant to be challenging, but man you should have heard the politeness in the applause at the end of the show.
The Studio season over.
LEE BEMROSE
And here is the other review in the bigger paper.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Mark Who'sadoofus.
What the hell is wrong with people? This is so ugly. How does "The Scud" (sometimes, I think, called The Pig Pou) hold his head high? Tosser. Tosser and bimbos and idiots who watch this sort of thing. Fucking hate them all. Fuck off to another planet. Please.
Cunts.
Cunts.
Monday, June 18, 2007
What's A Reviewer To Do?
I find this story pretty interesting. A restaurant reviewer ripped into a new restaurant, the restaurant went out of business. The owners blamed it on the negative review and have sued for defamation.
Makes me wonder if the review had been favourable and the restaurant had gone on to great success, would the owners have also attributed its success to the review? Paid the reviewer a slice of their takings?
I'd also be interested in finding out if the review was justified. It's savage, but he did go to the restaurant twice to give it a second chance, and I find it hard to believe that a writer with such a high profile would risk his credibility by giving a great restaurant such a bad review. I know food critics can get a bit carried away sometimes, but they're not fiction writers.
Do theatre reviewers have to worry about being taken to court if they dislike a performance? If so, I could be in the poo when Drum hits the streets tomorrow. Saw a performance on Saturday that made me quite cranky.
Makes me wonder if the review had been favourable and the restaurant had gone on to great success, would the owners have also attributed its success to the review? Paid the reviewer a slice of their takings?
I'd also be interested in finding out if the review was justified. It's savage, but he did go to the restaurant twice to give it a second chance, and I find it hard to believe that a writer with such a high profile would risk his credibility by giving a great restaurant such a bad review. I know food critics can get a bit carried away sometimes, but they're not fiction writers.
Do theatre reviewers have to worry about being taken to court if they dislike a performance? If so, I could be in the poo when Drum hits the streets tomorrow. Saw a performance on Saturday that made me quite cranky.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Indie Rock Chick From Outer Space
Went for a trial day yesterday working in a corporate cafeteria. It's the kind of place The Dreaded One and I used to run, only this one is grotty and soulless. In fact I almost laugh at how unclean and untidy it is. I'm amazed that such a high profile bank would allow their head office cafeteria to be in this state. I realise just what a good job The Dreaded One and I had done with our shiny place. Ours was full of vibe, happy customers, new music you don't hear on the radio, the smell of gourmet food.
The guy who runs this outfit obviously did that thing where you bring a newbie onto your turf and you suddenly see things through their eyes. He apologised about it being such a pig sty as he rubbed his fists into his reddened eyes. He also introduced me to his assistant and I was relieved at her appearance; it was as unkempt as everything else in the place, but kinda cool in that indie rock chick way.
Both their personalities seemed pretty chilled, so that was good. And the filth? I'd just clean by stealth.
The day was all right. Few alarm bells. Food hygeine and stock rotation didn't appear to be on the agenda. Their pricing and some of their systems were weird. I was a little embarrassed about some of the food we were serving. And Indie Rock Chick had a muttered running commentary about what she was currently in the process of doing, and I couldn't decide if it was endearing or creepy.
Music was a big topic of conversation and I dunno, I was lowering my standards but I need a regular job for a while. End of the day the manager asks if I want the job. I say yes, mainly because after getting through one trial day I can't be bothered lining up another with the hope that I might get somewhere better.
"Cool," the manager says. "Indie Rock Chick likes you, and that's the main thing."
Indie Rock Chick is all smiles as she says, "Yeah. Can we keep him?"
I leave with the impression that this is an outfit who won the contract somehow, but they don't really care about it all that much. Their boardroom functions are sandwiches and cheap biscuits. I almost do burst out laughing when I see the poor quality of the bickies they're plating up at one stage. I didn't realise catering this bad still existed. Clearly these are people who just want to get through the day and get the hell out of there. I'm not sure how long I will be able to stick this out. I know I will keep looking for something else, but for now...
This morning, the manager doesn't show. Indie Rock Chick collects me at the front lobby and she seems a little stressed. "Just the two of us this morning," she mutters in a foreboding tone. I shrug. This is not a busy place. I saw what she called The Lunch Rush and it was a joke. At one point during the previous lunch rush, an elevator opened and she muttered urgently to me, "Here they come. There's nothing then they come in hordes," as all four suits made their way to the counter.
Turns out the manager stayed up drinking and watching the football last night and was hungover. Got to love that professionalism. It appears to have put Indie Rock Chick in a bit of a mood (not the least because he does this all the time and everything is always left up to her). Suddenly everything I do is wrong. I am not moving fast enough. I just don't understand how busy it can get around here. I need to be spoken to in a condescending tone.
I remain chilled because there is nothing, as far as I can tell, actually wrong. A few customers trickle in and are dealt with, but the few minutes it has taken to serve them has apparently thrown time itself out of whack and we are never going to recover and be ready on time.
I feel a tremor of concern run through my chilled mood because this kind of behaviour works itself up into a state. I've seen it happen. Mountains and mole hills. It's fucking ridiculous and doesn't achieve a damn thing.
Suddenly we are swamped with, ooh, six customers? And Indie Rock Chick is in a total flap. She's asking for everyone's orders at once, stuffing up orders and generally totally sabotaging what would otherwise be a very peaceful and orderly operation.
I watch in awe as she starts telling one perplexed customer that she simply cannot cope with all the pressure of setting up by herself and trying to train people.
Then she chews me out in front of customers I suspect have witnessed this kind of thing before. She gives me some condescending, snippy lecture about lifting my game, and I'm sorry but customers present or not, I'm not having that. I tell her to calm down.
"I am calm," she snarls.
"No you're not. You are stressing and it's not helping things at all."
"I'm stressing because it's stressful!"
And then I can't quite recall what is said but I know the two of us are having a proper go at each other while bewildered customers look on, and it's right as the hungover manager makes his disheveled appearance.
On the other side of the glass partition separating the kitchen from the service area, the manager has asked what the problem is and Indie Rock Chick is all tears and waggly arms as she storms from one end of the kitchen to the other Picking Things Up and Putting Them Back Down again.
I'm not sure what just happened, but I am sure it's not going to happen again. I think it also goes some way to explaining why all the customers kept asking what happened to former short-term employees.
Manager comes out after sending Indie Rock Chick outside for a cigarette and asks how I am. I tell him that I am fine, but that I don't think it's going to work out. He looks a little disappointed, but resigned.
I help out for a while longer and things calm down. I ask if Indie Rock Chick is okay even though it's clear she's going to ignore my presence until I go. She says yeah and gives in and apologises quite a bit. I'm not sure what the problem is, but I do know that I don't want to deal with it.
It's lunch time now. I imagine the customers asking Indie Rock Chick, "Where's that guy you were introducing us to? I thought he was going to settle in."
I wrote another song last night. I am enjoying writing songs. I had intended to show Indie Rock Chick my song to see if she could use her musical skills to do anything with it. Now instead I am going to write a song about her.
"Oh I-hindie Rock Chick,
Who'd guess behind that sweet face,
Lurks a demonic alien,
Indie Rock Chick From Outer Space..."
More later.
The guy who runs this outfit obviously did that thing where you bring a newbie onto your turf and you suddenly see things through their eyes. He apologised about it being such a pig sty as he rubbed his fists into his reddened eyes. He also introduced me to his assistant and I was relieved at her appearance; it was as unkempt as everything else in the place, but kinda cool in that indie rock chick way.
Both their personalities seemed pretty chilled, so that was good. And the filth? I'd just clean by stealth.
The day was all right. Few alarm bells. Food hygeine and stock rotation didn't appear to be on the agenda. Their pricing and some of their systems were weird. I was a little embarrassed about some of the food we were serving. And Indie Rock Chick had a muttered running commentary about what she was currently in the process of doing, and I couldn't decide if it was endearing or creepy.
Music was a big topic of conversation and I dunno, I was lowering my standards but I need a regular job for a while. End of the day the manager asks if I want the job. I say yes, mainly because after getting through one trial day I can't be bothered lining up another with the hope that I might get somewhere better.
"Cool," the manager says. "Indie Rock Chick likes you, and that's the main thing."
Indie Rock Chick is all smiles as she says, "Yeah. Can we keep him?"
I leave with the impression that this is an outfit who won the contract somehow, but they don't really care about it all that much. Their boardroom functions are sandwiches and cheap biscuits. I almost do burst out laughing when I see the poor quality of the bickies they're plating up at one stage. I didn't realise catering this bad still existed. Clearly these are people who just want to get through the day and get the hell out of there. I'm not sure how long I will be able to stick this out. I know I will keep looking for something else, but for now...
This morning, the manager doesn't show. Indie Rock Chick collects me at the front lobby and she seems a little stressed. "Just the two of us this morning," she mutters in a foreboding tone. I shrug. This is not a busy place. I saw what she called The Lunch Rush and it was a joke. At one point during the previous lunch rush, an elevator opened and she muttered urgently to me, "Here they come. There's nothing then they come in hordes," as all four suits made their way to the counter.
Turns out the manager stayed up drinking and watching the football last night and was hungover. Got to love that professionalism. It appears to have put Indie Rock Chick in a bit of a mood (not the least because he does this all the time and everything is always left up to her). Suddenly everything I do is wrong. I am not moving fast enough. I just don't understand how busy it can get around here. I need to be spoken to in a condescending tone.
I remain chilled because there is nothing, as far as I can tell, actually wrong. A few customers trickle in and are dealt with, but the few minutes it has taken to serve them has apparently thrown time itself out of whack and we are never going to recover and be ready on time.
I feel a tremor of concern run through my chilled mood because this kind of behaviour works itself up into a state. I've seen it happen. Mountains and mole hills. It's fucking ridiculous and doesn't achieve a damn thing.
Suddenly we are swamped with, ooh, six customers? And Indie Rock Chick is in a total flap. She's asking for everyone's orders at once, stuffing up orders and generally totally sabotaging what would otherwise be a very peaceful and orderly operation.
I watch in awe as she starts telling one perplexed customer that she simply cannot cope with all the pressure of setting up by herself and trying to train people.
Then she chews me out in front of customers I suspect have witnessed this kind of thing before. She gives me some condescending, snippy lecture about lifting my game, and I'm sorry but customers present or not, I'm not having that. I tell her to calm down.
"I am calm," she snarls.
"No you're not. You are stressing and it's not helping things at all."
"I'm stressing because it's stressful!"
And then I can't quite recall what is said but I know the two of us are having a proper go at each other while bewildered customers look on, and it's right as the hungover manager makes his disheveled appearance.
On the other side of the glass partition separating the kitchen from the service area, the manager has asked what the problem is and Indie Rock Chick is all tears and waggly arms as she storms from one end of the kitchen to the other Picking Things Up and Putting Them Back Down again.
I'm not sure what just happened, but I am sure it's not going to happen again. I think it also goes some way to explaining why all the customers kept asking what happened to former short-term employees.
Manager comes out after sending Indie Rock Chick outside for a cigarette and asks how I am. I tell him that I am fine, but that I don't think it's going to work out. He looks a little disappointed, but resigned.
I help out for a while longer and things calm down. I ask if Indie Rock Chick is okay even though it's clear she's going to ignore my presence until I go. She says yeah and gives in and apologises quite a bit. I'm not sure what the problem is, but I do know that I don't want to deal with it.
It's lunch time now. I imagine the customers asking Indie Rock Chick, "Where's that guy you were introducing us to? I thought he was going to settle in."
I wrote another song last night. I am enjoying writing songs. I had intended to show Indie Rock Chick my song to see if she could use her musical skills to do anything with it. Now instead I am going to write a song about her.
"Oh I-hindie Rock Chick,
Who'd guess behind that sweet face,
Lurks a demonic alien,
Indie Rock Chick From Outer Space..."
More later.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Sex.
Writhe. Sweat. Saliva. Skin. Smell. Taste. Lick. Fuck. Moan. Give. Take. Take. Take. Give. Give. Tense. Heave. Suck. Scratch. Tense. Taught. Give. Release. Ohfuck. OhGodohGodohgood...
Her: (sighing) "Shit that was good."
Him: (sighing) "Yeah. Good. Um... can you get off me now?"
Pillow: (on face) "WHUMP!"
Her: (sighing) "Shit that was good."
Him: (sighing) "Yeah. Good. Um... can you get off me now?"
Pillow: (on face) "WHUMP!"
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Strangers In A Park
Rain is spatting against the window right now, wind tearing through the palm leaves just outside. It's bleak. Cold. Dark. You just want to be inside with warmth wrapped around. I've barely cracked a grin all week, but I keep thinking about the stranger in the park, and that does it for me.
One week ago, guy and a girl in a park. Hasn't been a great week for him, but here and now - check this awesome day. Seriously, a harbour some people in some parts of the world would die to see, sunshine and warmth and the biggest threat maybe the shrill squawk of a child.
The guy doesn't realise until much later that he's opening up more than usual. More than he has in a long time anyway. He's had some pretty weird shit happen. The father. The mother. The whole family thing, he rarely mentions it, but for some reason (the booze... they are drinking wine by the way) he opens up and it's kind of strange because these are memories that he doesn't dust off very often.
He listens too, because she has also had a strange life. He watches as he listens, and he sees the activity beneath the surface. She talks of her whole family thing.
And it's serious and wonderful because look at that view and how did we meet again and how long have we known each other and...
Then there's this sound. It's the best sound ever. He makes them stop talking because this sound is one you have got to hear. Girl lying on the warm grass a little further down the hill, she's laughing. She's on the phone and she's twisted over laughing. She's lost it completely. She is giving it everything, has gone all high pitched and breathless and is rigid with the absolute joy of it. You have to stop when you hear a laugh like that because really, does being human ever get better than that?
Her laugh eases. They continue to talk, but then she's off again and it's better than before. Whatever the person on the other end of the phone is saying is just the funniest stuff ever. Through her high pitched squeals she gasps as she grasps the phone, "No don't. Don't go. Don't go." And she's off again into that state of writhing, hoarse ecstasy.
When she ends the call, reality comes back and she's here in this gorgeous place. This still and quiet place. Cleared throat. Green grass. Harbour. View you'd kill for. She's here away from whatever caused the laughter. She sits for a few minutes, alone and thinking what a scream that was. Then she gets up to leave. Dusts the grass from her jeans.
The guy has to ask. He calls out to her, "Hey. What was the person on the other end of the phone saying?"
She looks at these two strangers and asks, "What?" Then she smiles and has a little residual giggle, then tells the guy and the girl that she was talking to her family, her family in some other place. Some in-joke about them all being together on the couch watching television in the nude and the phone being passed between them and it probably doesn't make any sense or seem funny at all now that I say it out loud. Something about how she always pees her pants when she laughs too much and that's when they were saying they should go and she said no don't go.
She apologises because she thinks she has intruded. Then she asks if the guy and girl know where the toilets are because she really needs to pee.
Stranger in a park, her laugh and her family thing is a sparkling little memory.
One week ago, guy and a girl in a park. Hasn't been a great week for him, but here and now - check this awesome day. Seriously, a harbour some people in some parts of the world would die to see, sunshine and warmth and the biggest threat maybe the shrill squawk of a child.
The guy doesn't realise until much later that he's opening up more than usual. More than he has in a long time anyway. He's had some pretty weird shit happen. The father. The mother. The whole family thing, he rarely mentions it, but for some reason (the booze... they are drinking wine by the way) he opens up and it's kind of strange because these are memories that he doesn't dust off very often.
He listens too, because she has also had a strange life. He watches as he listens, and he sees the activity beneath the surface. She talks of her whole family thing.
And it's serious and wonderful because look at that view and how did we meet again and how long have we known each other and...
Then there's this sound. It's the best sound ever. He makes them stop talking because this sound is one you have got to hear. Girl lying on the warm grass a little further down the hill, she's laughing. She's on the phone and she's twisted over laughing. She's lost it completely. She is giving it everything, has gone all high pitched and breathless and is rigid with the absolute joy of it. You have to stop when you hear a laugh like that because really, does being human ever get better than that?
Her laugh eases. They continue to talk, but then she's off again and it's better than before. Whatever the person on the other end of the phone is saying is just the funniest stuff ever. Through her high pitched squeals she gasps as she grasps the phone, "No don't. Don't go. Don't go." And she's off again into that state of writhing, hoarse ecstasy.
When she ends the call, reality comes back and she's here in this gorgeous place. This still and quiet place. Cleared throat. Green grass. Harbour. View you'd kill for. She's here away from whatever caused the laughter. She sits for a few minutes, alone and thinking what a scream that was. Then she gets up to leave. Dusts the grass from her jeans.
The guy has to ask. He calls out to her, "Hey. What was the person on the other end of the phone saying?"
She looks at these two strangers and asks, "What?" Then she smiles and has a little residual giggle, then tells the guy and the girl that she was talking to her family, her family in some other place. Some in-joke about them all being together on the couch watching television in the nude and the phone being passed between them and it probably doesn't make any sense or seem funny at all now that I say it out loud. Something about how she always pees her pants when she laughs too much and that's when they were saying they should go and she said no don't go.
She apologises because she thinks she has intruded. Then she asks if the guy and girl know where the toilets are because she really needs to pee.
Stranger in a park, her laugh and her family thing is a sparkling little memory.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Operation Chervil
Sometimes when you are playing the role of Faux Chef for A Very Impressive Catering Company operating from the bowels of a Big White Pointy Sydney Icon, you have to do repetitive and not necessarily glamorous things.Like picking herbs for canape garnish.
Herbs like chervil.
Things is, although I like to kick into action and do big stuff, I also don't mind chilling out and doing mindless things like picking tiny little leaves from their stem in a delicate manner for the greater good of a kick arse canape. Or several canapes, because as you may or may not know (and I definitely now know), chervil makes an excellent accompaniment to... oooh... TOO MANY canapes.
I was given half a tonne of chervil and told pick that. Fine, I thought, one of those jobs but that's cool because I am not in the mood for thinking. I am quite in the mood for picking chervil.
"So it's about 700 tiny little leaves you need to pick."
"That's cool."
"But that's the single leaf chervil garnish, not the multi leaf garnish."
"Still cool."
"Hang on... okay, so that's 700 smalls, 700 bigs..."
"Still cool. Getting less cool. But cool."
"Okay... looking at the week's menu there's quite a lot of chervil to be picked. May as well do it all at once. So..."
Soon - and I'm not joking - I was staring at a chart. The Chart Of Chervil. Operation Chervil. Clearly I was starting to look confused so The Canape Queen decided to help me by adding asterisks next to the canapes requiring chervil (in either it's big or small form). I wanted to draw up my own chart but she insisted that it was all right because she had already drawn up a chart for me.
"Cool."
I forgot to mention there was a chervil-picking helper that had been assigned to me. There had been quite a lot of discussion about chervil and the various sizes and quantities required and at some point along the way, she proved to be a very... a very efficient chervil picker. She managed to pick an awesome amount of chervil and classify it according to size and box it and label it with its quantity, which left me to refer to the chart to try to determine which boxes of tiny little (or not so little) chervil went onto each job and each job fridge.
Yes. It's big catering and every job has a number and a job fridge and you really do not want to put a box of 120 small chervil leaves into the job fridge requiring 700 large chervil sprigs.
There was also this: "No not all asterisks refer to chervil! It's just the black ones! You should have ignored the red asterisks - that's baby coriander!"
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Fuckers
I cannot fucking believe that those utter bastards awarded MY tiara and MY sash to some other fucker. God, this whole thing is a travesty! Old people and pooh... when was that ever funny? Bah! Everything can just go to hell's pottie.
(Was being ironic, for those not familiar with me).
For those who are familiar with me, I'm still in a mood. A mood. Will be away for a bit, more than likely. But do come back. Please do. I'll be happy and silly again, and we can laugh about those golden days of wine and roses...
(Was being ironic, for those not familiar with me).
For those who are familiar with me, I'm still in a mood. A mood. Will be away for a bit, more than likely. But do come back. Please do. I'll be happy and silly again, and we can laugh about those golden days of wine and roses...
Friday, June 01, 2007
Never Swim Alone & This Is A Play Review
Saw a couple of really good short plays last night. Review below.
But alsotooaswell, I'm on a bit of a sleuth mission. There's a guy I met through another theatre critic acquaintance who I see at opening nights all the time. I have forgotten his name and we're in that funny situation of kind of recognising each other but not enough to really say hello. He comes across as very earnest, so it's kind of weird to see him at so many comedies. He sits through them not cracking a grin while everyone else is laughing their ears off.
I suspect I know who he writes for because a review a certain reviewer wrote recently was exactly the kind of earnest, I-only-appreciate-intellectual-humour review I'd expect this guy to have written. But I don't know if they are the same person. Somehow, I have to find out.
His review of this play will be out this weekend. It will be interesting to see if our reviews are polar opposites again. And then I have to get all gumshoe and find out if they are one and the same person.
Anyway, here's my review of last night's plays. Won't be in the mag for another week, which is a bummer. And 350 words is bloody frustrating, but that's all I'm allowed.
NEVER SWIM ALONE & THIS IS A PLAY
Few things give me as much pleasure as plays that make me gush with enthusiasm. I love writing reviews where I get to say things like you should go see it because I laughed so hard my bottom almost fell off. This is one such review.
Daniel MacIvor’s two short plays demonstrate why he’s apparently so popular in his home country of Canada. This is very funny theatre, very clever theatre (in that not-too-clever way), and all-round satisfying theatre. If you don’t enjoy these plays, stop going to the theatre immediately because you are clearly missing the point.
In This Is A Play three actors and their over-nourished egos hit the stage in a melodrama about three lettuces separated at birth. They are hyper-self-aware that they are Actors who are Acting In A Play before A Real Live Audience, with lines being the very stage direction they are (badly) acting out, as well as what should be their inner thoughts while delivering real lines. The actors go through the motions while all the time trying to upstage their fellow actors, and it’s a device both targeted at those involved in theatre as well as those of us who simply recognise a good piss-take. Direction and comic acting did justice to what is a pretty simple concept, and at 35 minutes MacIvor demonstrates that he knows not to give us too much of a good thing. Very funny.
Never Swim Alone is also good comedy, albeit a darker one. In examining the fierce rivalry between two lifelong “mates”, we go back in time to the seeds of their competitiveness to an event that clearly haunts them through their lives, but from which they have learned nothing. It’s a kick in the guts to male posturing and bravado that if anything could have been a little more brutal. After all, as silly as such characters as Bill and Frank are (unfortunately you will recognise them in the real world), the effect of their idiotic rivalry on those around them is pretty brutal. Still, this is gradually darkening comedy peppered with some quite evocative and poetic writing - and it felt so Australian that it’s hard to get your head around the fact that it’s an international creation. And Lotte St Clair’s presence would reduce a lesser reviewer to concluding a review by saying something immature like Lotte St Clair is, like, uber-babe.
At Darlinghurst Theatre until 23 June.
LEE BEMROSE
But alsotooaswell, I'm on a bit of a sleuth mission. There's a guy I met through another theatre critic acquaintance who I see at opening nights all the time. I have forgotten his name and we're in that funny situation of kind of recognising each other but not enough to really say hello. He comes across as very earnest, so it's kind of weird to see him at so many comedies. He sits through them not cracking a grin while everyone else is laughing their ears off.
I suspect I know who he writes for because a review a certain reviewer wrote recently was exactly the kind of earnest, I-only-appreciate-intellectual-humour review I'd expect this guy to have written. But I don't know if they are the same person. Somehow, I have to find out.
His review of this play will be out this weekend. It will be interesting to see if our reviews are polar opposites again. And then I have to get all gumshoe and find out if they are one and the same person.
Anyway, here's my review of last night's plays. Won't be in the mag for another week, which is a bummer. And 350 words is bloody frustrating, but that's all I'm allowed.
NEVER SWIM ALONE & THIS IS A PLAY
Few things give me as much pleasure as plays that make me gush with enthusiasm. I love writing reviews where I get to say things like you should go see it because I laughed so hard my bottom almost fell off. This is one such review.
Daniel MacIvor’s two short plays demonstrate why he’s apparently so popular in his home country of Canada. This is very funny theatre, very clever theatre (in that not-too-clever way), and all-round satisfying theatre. If you don’t enjoy these plays, stop going to the theatre immediately because you are clearly missing the point.
In This Is A Play three actors and their over-nourished egos hit the stage in a melodrama about three lettuces separated at birth. They are hyper-self-aware that they are Actors who are Acting In A Play before A Real Live Audience, with lines being the very stage direction they are (badly) acting out, as well as what should be their inner thoughts while delivering real lines. The actors go through the motions while all the time trying to upstage their fellow actors, and it’s a device both targeted at those involved in theatre as well as those of us who simply recognise a good piss-take. Direction and comic acting did justice to what is a pretty simple concept, and at 35 minutes MacIvor demonstrates that he knows not to give us too much of a good thing. Very funny.
Never Swim Alone is also good comedy, albeit a darker one. In examining the fierce rivalry between two lifelong “mates”, we go back in time to the seeds of their competitiveness to an event that clearly haunts them through their lives, but from which they have learned nothing. It’s a kick in the guts to male posturing and bravado that if anything could have been a little more brutal. After all, as silly as such characters as Bill and Frank are (unfortunately you will recognise them in the real world), the effect of their idiotic rivalry on those around them is pretty brutal. Still, this is gradually darkening comedy peppered with some quite evocative and poetic writing - and it felt so Australian that it’s hard to get your head around the fact that it’s an international creation. And Lotte St Clair’s presence would reduce a lesser reviewer to concluding a review by saying something immature like Lotte St Clair is, like, uber-babe.
At Darlinghurst Theatre until 23 June.
LEE BEMROSE
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Post Of The Week.
Someone appears to have thought the post below was a good read. Never been nominated for a Post Of The Week before. Totally wasn't expecting it. Funny that it was a moody post when I generally aim for funny. All these new people are probably popping and and going, "Wot? He's on about funny shit being everywhere it's just a bit hard to see sometimes, and he's a maudlin, mopey fucker AND a faggy love poem-writing... erm... fag. Last time you catch me reading this twobluefish garbage... and anyway, what the hell does two blue fish even mean anyway? It's all bloody maudlin, mopey, faggy rubbish and I'm not putting up with it any longer."
Stuff like that.
Anyway, click on the shiny new Post Of The Week link at the side and check out a whole lot of stuff you might not have encountered before. Some familiar names there are already regular favourites of mine, others I'm just getting to know. There's some good writing over there.
And there's me too.
Stuff like that.
Anyway, click on the shiny new Post Of The Week link at the side and check out a whole lot of stuff you might not have encountered before. Some familiar names there are already regular favourites of mine, others I'm just getting to know. There's some good writing over there.
And there's me too.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Moods & Words
Such a strange day yesterday.
I have this top with an image of a Kamikaze pilot who's taken a hit. Bullet through his right eye. He's screaming as he goes down. He's going down, no question, but in his dying moments he's never been so alive.
Three guys come into the shop. First customers all day, only they're not customers. They think it's a game and maybe it is, but I'm not in the mood. I'm polite to them but once it's clear what they're up to, I get up from my desk because I am not in the fucking mood.
They huddle. They murmur. I walk over to their huddle and break up their murmur. I ask them how I can help them. Slouch. Murmur. Avoid eye contact. One carries a huge jacket on this warm day. Fucking clowns. They move away. They inspect everything. In my shop inspecting my clothes like they have the right. At one point they don't even realise that the clothes they are looking at are for girls. When they realise they move away to a more appropriate section.
I hover. I prowl. I ask again what they are looking for. I'm all smiles but I am not in the fucking mood. They hover. They fondle. They linger with no intention of buying.
Crazy, I think. Three of you. You could do it. Just go crazy. At least one of you will get away. Maybe two. Maybe all three, but I doubt it. But get away with what? Still, you should do it, if you're going to do it. Really. Because I am just not in the mood.
They try to get me to go out the back for some stock not on the rack. Old ploy. No fucking chance. They've feigned interest in too many things. The surprise when they realised they were pretending to be interested in girls pants... brilliant.
In the end, they leave empty handed. They know that I am on to them, and that's enough. They don't even have the brains to thank me and pretend they are friendly and that they will be back to buy another day. They just leave. Slouch. Murmur. Game over.
I walk to the station and see this wrecked old guy slumped against a wall. He's rubbing his forehead and staring at the past like he just can't figure out how he got here. He was clean once and there had been potential. Maybe there was laughter. But now he's here and there's nothing to laugh about. How did that happen? Where did his life go?
Then I'm home and I know I'm in a mood. Silence and booze because I need to get through this mood. I need to breathe it in and digest it and spit it back out. There's no reason for it, it's just there. Or maybe there is a reason. Maybe there's a million.
I'm in front of the computer because one thing always kicks this mood. I need a story. Some beauty. I peer into the lives of others. I wonder what happened to old friends. I wonder who these people are. It's just a screen filled with words, but check them out. It's as infinite and complex as music.
And then, here, I read this line: "Love comes and goes, but love not allowed to run its course just burns on in a heart forever."
How cool is that? What a perfect sentence. What a stunning observation. I don't know why but those words stop everything for me. Time. My breath. This mood. It all stops and somehow I'm in the lyrics of Carly Simon and it seems there's not a sadder, more beautiful place. I hit one song - I think it's called It's Not Like Him - and it's enough. Switch flicked and I have to attempt something as evocative, and I write something that might be a poem, it might be a song.
It breaks me. And later it breaks her. She hugs me tightly and I marvel for the thousandth time at the power of words.
Later she writes to her mother and she sends her my words. I don't get this. I know it's got that thing and it will move most people, but why did she send it to her mother so soon?
And then I get it. I'm not much in the eyes of the mother. I'm not a winner. Quite the opposite. But look, she is saying, he still writes words like this after all this time - have you ever had a song or a poem written about you? How can you put a price on that? That's what she's saying.
And I don't know how I feel about that.
I have this top with an image of a Kamikaze pilot who's taken a hit. Bullet through his right eye. He's screaming as he goes down. He's going down, no question, but in his dying moments he's never been so alive.
Three guys come into the shop. First customers all day, only they're not customers. They think it's a game and maybe it is, but I'm not in the mood. I'm polite to them but once it's clear what they're up to, I get up from my desk because I am not in the fucking mood.
They huddle. They murmur. I walk over to their huddle and break up their murmur. I ask them how I can help them. Slouch. Murmur. Avoid eye contact. One carries a huge jacket on this warm day. Fucking clowns. They move away. They inspect everything. In my shop inspecting my clothes like they have the right. At one point they don't even realise that the clothes they are looking at are for girls. When they realise they move away to a more appropriate section.
I hover. I prowl. I ask again what they are looking for. I'm all smiles but I am not in the fucking mood. They hover. They fondle. They linger with no intention of buying.
Crazy, I think. Three of you. You could do it. Just go crazy. At least one of you will get away. Maybe two. Maybe all three, but I doubt it. But get away with what? Still, you should do it, if you're going to do it. Really. Because I am just not in the mood.
They try to get me to go out the back for some stock not on the rack. Old ploy. No fucking chance. They've feigned interest in too many things. The surprise when they realised they were pretending to be interested in girls pants... brilliant.
In the end, they leave empty handed. They know that I am on to them, and that's enough. They don't even have the brains to thank me and pretend they are friendly and that they will be back to buy another day. They just leave. Slouch. Murmur. Game over.
I walk to the station and see this wrecked old guy slumped against a wall. He's rubbing his forehead and staring at the past like he just can't figure out how he got here. He was clean once and there had been potential. Maybe there was laughter. But now he's here and there's nothing to laugh about. How did that happen? Where did his life go?
Then I'm home and I know I'm in a mood. Silence and booze because I need to get through this mood. I need to breathe it in and digest it and spit it back out. There's no reason for it, it's just there. Or maybe there is a reason. Maybe there's a million.
I'm in front of the computer because one thing always kicks this mood. I need a story. Some beauty. I peer into the lives of others. I wonder what happened to old friends. I wonder who these people are. It's just a screen filled with words, but check them out. It's as infinite and complex as music.
And then, here, I read this line: "Love comes and goes, but love not allowed to run its course just burns on in a heart forever."
How cool is that? What a perfect sentence. What a stunning observation. I don't know why but those words stop everything for me. Time. My breath. This mood. It all stops and somehow I'm in the lyrics of Carly Simon and it seems there's not a sadder, more beautiful place. I hit one song - I think it's called It's Not Like Him - and it's enough. Switch flicked and I have to attempt something as evocative, and I write something that might be a poem, it might be a song.
It breaks me. And later it breaks her. She hugs me tightly and I marvel for the thousandth time at the power of words.
Later she writes to her mother and she sends her my words. I don't get this. I know it's got that thing and it will move most people, but why did she send it to her mother so soon?
And then I get it. I'm not much in the eyes of the mother. I'm not a winner. Quite the opposite. But look, she is saying, he still writes words like this after all this time - have you ever had a song or a poem written about you? How can you put a price on that? That's what she's saying.
And I don't know how I feel about that.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Note To Brain
I've finally figured out what's going on when I dream. I assume we all have pretty fucked up dreams. It's other universes in there, isn't it. Rules in the waking world just don't apply. You can fly, see people you haven't seen in years, run into new creatures, long dead pets, have sex in the street with complete strangers... anything goes. It's brilliant.
But do you ever get those dreams that wake you up because they seem so loaded with symbolisim that you spend the day wondering what the hell they were trying to tell you? You tell bored friends or workmates about them and hope they will come up with an interpretation. You might even log onto a dream interpretation website because the dream in which your teeth fell out or your cat spoke to you or your willie suddenly turned into a quite lovely vagina when you took your place at the trough, it just had to mean something, right?
Anyway, it just struck me recently that none of it means a damn thing. Last night, for example, I dreamed that I was looking at a group shot of friends. First thing that leapt out at me was that in the photo, I was fat. I was as fat as the fattest I had been in my life (which was not obese, it's just that I don't do fat well at all. I need to be thin). In the dream, I was quietly devastated because in the waking world - my dreamself was aware - I had lost a bit of weight recently and am again precisely as thin as I am meant to be.
What did it mean? What was this dream trying to tell me?
Nothing. Nothing at all. It was simply my brain playing a joke on me. It's a braingag. My brain knew the effect inserting a fatty photo would have on me and was laughing its brain-arse off.
Well ho ho, Brain, I hope you've been enjoying all your little brainpranks because now that I'm on to you, it's game on. We'll see who comes out of this little joke war laughing last.
But do you ever get those dreams that wake you up because they seem so loaded with symbolisim that you spend the day wondering what the hell they were trying to tell you? You tell bored friends or workmates about them and hope they will come up with an interpretation. You might even log onto a dream interpretation website because the dream in which your teeth fell out or your cat spoke to you or your willie suddenly turned into a quite lovely vagina when you took your place at the trough, it just had to mean something, right?
Anyway, it just struck me recently that none of it means a damn thing. Last night, for example, I dreamed that I was looking at a group shot of friends. First thing that leapt out at me was that in the photo, I was fat. I was as fat as the fattest I had been in my life (which was not obese, it's just that I don't do fat well at all. I need to be thin). In the dream, I was quietly devastated because in the waking world - my dreamself was aware - I had lost a bit of weight recently and am again precisely as thin as I am meant to be.
What did it mean? What was this dream trying to tell me?
Nothing. Nothing at all. It was simply my brain playing a joke on me. It's a braingag. My brain knew the effect inserting a fatty photo would have on me and was laughing its brain-arse off.
Well ho ho, Brain, I hope you've been enjoying all your little brainpranks because now that I'm on to you, it's game on. We'll see who comes out of this little joke war laughing last.
Shane Koyczan at The Sydney Writers' Festival
I've recently been alerted to the poetry of Canadian Shane Koyczan. It can be hilarious one moment, tender and moving the next. He's going to be in town for The Sydney Writers' Festival and I think I'm going to go along and check him out. He's meant to be quite special live.
There's a brief Q&A I did with him in the current issue of Drum Media, so if you live in Sydney pick up a copy. You can hear some of his work here. It's good stuff.
There's a brief Q&A I did with him in the current issue of Drum Media, so if you live in Sydney pick up a copy. You can hear some of his work here. It's good stuff.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
On A Roll And Back Off It Again
For a short while there it did indeed look like I was on a roll. The silly love song I wrote for my favourite cabaret performer looked like it might be in with a chance, then nothing. She said she likes it and I don't see why she would say that if she didn't mean it. Thing is, she's constatly traveling and may simply not have gotten around to following up like she said she would. Or she might have taken another look at it and it's total rubbishness might have been a bit clearer on second reading. Either way, I'm less excited now. There's still a bit of hope, but mainly it was just a fun thing to have done. Pick your favourite singer. Imagine writing a song for them and they actually read the thing and appear to like it with the possibility of performning at some time... who wouldn't be excited about that?
And the job interview? It was as a srciptwiter for a large and pretty cool game making company. I turned up for the interview and was pretty blown away by the office. Huge open plan converted warehouse. Very plush. I was left alone for a few minutes while the writer and the general manager were fetched, and in those long minutes I suddenly got very nervous. Man, it just slammed me. It was the in-over-my head thing again. Sure, they obviously liked the audition story I sent to them and were impressed with how quickly I got it to them etc (and I knew it was good), but looking around the office, flitting through game magazines I realised just what a whole other world this was, and I knew how none of it worked. Again I was going to have to convince someone that although I have no specific experience I can do the job. I really wanted the job but knew that it's only going to take someone with a bit of experience and I'm out.
Typically I hadn't prepared myself as far as thinking about the right answers to standard interview questions. I just kind of muddled through, kept trying to come backto various endeavours that I threw myself into with no prior experience but a whole lot of can-do attitude, told them that I don't like not succeeding at something once I take it on etc. I think the writer kind of liked me, liked what I had to say about writing etc, but the GM or MD or whatever she was, I don't think she was so impressed. It's a pretty high profile company and the game in question is already in the press a lot and it won't be realesed for some time yet, so I don't think she's after someone with no games experience. I figured it was better to be up-front about my lack of experience.
I did relax into it and I did talk quite a bit, managing to draw a laugh or two, but in the end I just don't think it's going to happen. A lot of people want this job as much as I do, and I'm sure some with more experience applied. I should have a definite answer this week.
Still, it was a fun process and nice to have been shortlisted. And I have a new crime story to send to a magazine now.
Also, a guy came into the clothing store looking for someone to make some cyberpunk clothing. We talked and it turns out he's a movie and game producer. I asked if he needs a writer. He said he's always looking for writers. I checked him out, seems pretty good. He said to send some samples to him. It's always good to ask people what they are about because you never know what's going to turn up.
But I don't feel on a roll anymore. I liked being on a roll though. You start to think you can make things happen by assuming they will happen.
All I'm assuming will happen today is I'll finish at the shop then go home and make something hearty for dinner. I went out to a club on Friday night and spent yesterday floating dreamily to gorgeous music. Didn't eat a thing until the sandwich I just scoffed. And I wonder why I'm losing weight. Must remember to eat.
And the job interview? It was as a srciptwiter for a large and pretty cool game making company. I turned up for the interview and was pretty blown away by the office. Huge open plan converted warehouse. Very plush. I was left alone for a few minutes while the writer and the general manager were fetched, and in those long minutes I suddenly got very nervous. Man, it just slammed me. It was the in-over-my head thing again. Sure, they obviously liked the audition story I sent to them and were impressed with how quickly I got it to them etc (and I knew it was good), but looking around the office, flitting through game magazines I realised just what a whole other world this was, and I knew how none of it worked. Again I was going to have to convince someone that although I have no specific experience I can do the job. I really wanted the job but knew that it's only going to take someone with a bit of experience and I'm out.
Typically I hadn't prepared myself as far as thinking about the right answers to standard interview questions. I just kind of muddled through, kept trying to come backto various endeavours that I threw myself into with no prior experience but a whole lot of can-do attitude, told them that I don't like not succeeding at something once I take it on etc. I think the writer kind of liked me, liked what I had to say about writing etc, but the GM or MD or whatever she was, I don't think she was so impressed. It's a pretty high profile company and the game in question is already in the press a lot and it won't be realesed for some time yet, so I don't think she's after someone with no games experience. I figured it was better to be up-front about my lack of experience.
I did relax into it and I did talk quite a bit, managing to draw a laugh or two, but in the end I just don't think it's going to happen. A lot of people want this job as much as I do, and I'm sure some with more experience applied. I should have a definite answer this week.
Still, it was a fun process and nice to have been shortlisted. And I have a new crime story to send to a magazine now.
Also, a guy came into the clothing store looking for someone to make some cyberpunk clothing. We talked and it turns out he's a movie and game producer. I asked if he needs a writer. He said he's always looking for writers. I checked him out, seems pretty good. He said to send some samples to him. It's always good to ask people what they are about because you never know what's going to turn up.
But I don't feel on a roll anymore. I liked being on a roll though. You start to think you can make things happen by assuming they will happen.
All I'm assuming will happen today is I'll finish at the shop then go home and make something hearty for dinner. I went out to a club on Friday night and spent yesterday floating dreamily to gorgeous music. Didn't eat a thing until the sandwich I just scoffed. And I wonder why I'm losing weight. Must remember to eat.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Grumpy In May
This is my latest Grumpy column for Tsunami mag. Inspired by a real conversation.
Grumpy
Guy I’ve known in the doofing scene for a couple of years asks me how my shop is going. I say fine. He asks what it’s like working there every day. I tell him I hardly ever work there and that I have to have other jobs because the truth is the shop is like an expensive hobby. It’s shitloads of fun, but it’s not making me rich. He seems pretty stunned by this. Tells me he assumed that all three partners worked in there fulltime. He asks what else I do. I tell him I’m also a chef and a writer and a theatre critic. He’s blown away by this. Not because it’s particularly amazing, but because he had absolutely no idea. Fucker obviously hasn’t been paying attention. I ask how the record label is going. He asks what record label? His record label. He tells me he doesn’t have a record label and that he works for a telco. I can’t believe I got it so wrong so I ask if he ever had anything vaguely resembling a record label. No, but he has some pretty good CDs. Curious, I turn and pick someone else I have spent many doof and club hours getting to know over the past few years. I ask them how the landscaping business is treating him. He tells me that it’s wrought iron and it’s doing okay. He asks me if I’m still enjoying being an editor. Dude, I tell him, I quit my job at the mag a year ago. Really? Tells me he didn’t know that. He asks what I do now. I count monkeys, I tell him because really, what’s the point? What’s the point of spending time with monged friends and talking with them if we can’t be bothered remembering the important bits?
“So, is that, like, with the zoo?”
“What?”
“The monkeys.”
The guy looks like he’s never heard of such a totally cool job, and I don’t want to ruin his day because I am a nice person.
“Yes,” I tell him, “it’s with the zoo. They employ professional Monkey Counters to count the monkeys because sometimes a monkey goes missing and we have to file a Missing Monkey Report.”
His mind is clearly filled with speculation about where the monkeys go, and I think I have some idea of the kinds of things we have been talking about over the years.
Grumpy
Guy I’ve known in the doofing scene for a couple of years asks me how my shop is going. I say fine. He asks what it’s like working there every day. I tell him I hardly ever work there and that I have to have other jobs because the truth is the shop is like an expensive hobby. It’s shitloads of fun, but it’s not making me rich. He seems pretty stunned by this. Tells me he assumed that all three partners worked in there fulltime. He asks what else I do. I tell him I’m also a chef and a writer and a theatre critic. He’s blown away by this. Not because it’s particularly amazing, but because he had absolutely no idea. Fucker obviously hasn’t been paying attention. I ask how the record label is going. He asks what record label? His record label. He tells me he doesn’t have a record label and that he works for a telco. I can’t believe I got it so wrong so I ask if he ever had anything vaguely resembling a record label. No, but he has some pretty good CDs. Curious, I turn and pick someone else I have spent many doof and club hours getting to know over the past few years. I ask them how the landscaping business is treating him. He tells me that it’s wrought iron and it’s doing okay. He asks me if I’m still enjoying being an editor. Dude, I tell him, I quit my job at the mag a year ago. Really? Tells me he didn’t know that. He asks what I do now. I count monkeys, I tell him because really, what’s the point? What’s the point of spending time with monged friends and talking with them if we can’t be bothered remembering the important bits?
“So, is that, like, with the zoo?”
“What?”
“The monkeys.”
The guy looks like he’s never heard of such a totally cool job, and I don’t want to ruin his day because I am a nice person.
“Yes,” I tell him, “it’s with the zoo. They employ professional Monkey Counters to count the monkeys because sometimes a monkey goes missing and we have to file a Missing Monkey Report.”
His mind is clearly filled with speculation about where the monkeys go, and I think I have some idea of the kinds of things we have been talking about over the years.
Insomnia Part II
I have this thing where I sometimes wake up with poetry in my head. This was the one from this morning:
Awaken to the torment
Of 5am clarity.
Grey gloom,
Precious drizzle,
And Kurrawongs warbling
Like heartbroken angels.
Awaken to the torment
Of 5am clarity.
Grey gloom,
Precious drizzle,
And Kurrawongs warbling
Like heartbroken angels.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Saturday, May 19, 2007
More Details Later
I haven't been kidnapped, it's just that with exciting job interviews (more details later), being involved in amazing goth fashion shows (more details later), hitting the dancefloor with teenage band idols (more details later) and double shifts faux cheffing, there really hasn't been much spare time to blog.
I did hear this expression the other day which quite amused me: "He had an expression like a cat licking shit off a thistle."
It's not relevant to anything, but I do think it's funny.
I did hear this expression the other day which quite amused me: "He had an expression like a cat licking shit off a thistle."
It's not relevant to anything, but I do think it's funny.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
My Fair Bum Clench
I should start another blog. One where I get to write drunken drivel like the three posts below, and another that is just about theatre.
Until then, here's this below. It's my current Drum Media review of a really ordinary play. Actually it was a pretty damned terrible play. How do these things make it to the stage?
I could have gone into more detail if I had more column space but I didn't and this was all I could dash off last minute Sunday night. On the other hand this reviewer had considerably more space to go into detail. I'm not sure which review is funnier.
MY FAIR LAWYER
Few things give me as much pleasure as plays that make me gush with enthusiasm. I love writing reviews where I get to say things like you should go see it because I laughed so hard my bottom almost fell off.
Unfortunately this is not one of those reviews. The only falling my bottom threatened to do was falling asleep... only it was too busy clenching to fall asleep, which is the bottom’s version of grimacing.
My Fair Lawyer is old school farce. Mistaken identities, overheard conversations, buffoonery at every convoluted plot turn, that sort of thing. That kind of stuff can be a hoot when in the hands of old masters like novelists Evelyn Waugh or P.G. Wodehouse, but in the hands of lesser mortals it can make your bottom cranky.
Henry Crowley is lawyer who just wants to read the newspaper. His wife wants them to bonk more often. A new psychiatrist opens shop. Someone claiming to be Henry’s illegitimate daughter turns up and the whole sorry mess just kind of wobbles about for the next hour or so while your bottom keeps asking if you can sneak out yet. “Not yet, Bottom,” you tell your bottom because having a conversation with your bottom is a bit more amusing than what is going on onstage. Your bottom pouts, so you say, “Look, at least it’s a short play, which is about the most positive thing I’m going to be able to say in the review. Now be quiet because people are starting to give us strange looks.”
Even the most outlandish and coincidence-driven farce can work if it pulls you into its own reality. It also helps if the jokes are funny. Fail on these two counts and you have a play that isn’t very good. The acting was competent, it’s just that the characters were shockers and some of the lines embarrassingly bad.
Having said all of that, some people like this kind of thing. Apparently My Fair Lawyer has been filling The Tap Gallery theatre for a couple of weeks now, and although the audience was half capacity on my night of attendance, lots of mostly older folks’ bottoms were indeed falling all the way off. So maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about. Maybe this is actually good comedy. And maybe I will be a fairy princess when I grow up.
Tap Gallery until 3 June.
Quick
Until then, here's this below. It's my current Drum Media review of a really ordinary play. Actually it was a pretty damned terrible play. How do these things make it to the stage?
I could have gone into more detail if I had more column space but I didn't and this was all I could dash off last minute Sunday night. On the other hand this reviewer had considerably more space to go into detail. I'm not sure which review is funnier.
MY FAIR LAWYER
Few things give me as much pleasure as plays that make me gush with enthusiasm. I love writing reviews where I get to say things like you should go see it because I laughed so hard my bottom almost fell off.
Unfortunately this is not one of those reviews. The only falling my bottom threatened to do was falling asleep... only it was too busy clenching to fall asleep, which is the bottom’s version of grimacing.
My Fair Lawyer is old school farce. Mistaken identities, overheard conversations, buffoonery at every convoluted plot turn, that sort of thing. That kind of stuff can be a hoot when in the hands of old masters like novelists Evelyn Waugh or P.G. Wodehouse, but in the hands of lesser mortals it can make your bottom cranky.
Henry Crowley is lawyer who just wants to read the newspaper. His wife wants them to bonk more often. A new psychiatrist opens shop. Someone claiming to be Henry’s illegitimate daughter turns up and the whole sorry mess just kind of wobbles about for the next hour or so while your bottom keeps asking if you can sneak out yet. “Not yet, Bottom,” you tell your bottom because having a conversation with your bottom is a bit more amusing than what is going on onstage. Your bottom pouts, so you say, “Look, at least it’s a short play, which is about the most positive thing I’m going to be able to say in the review. Now be quiet because people are starting to give us strange looks.”
Even the most outlandish and coincidence-driven farce can work if it pulls you into its own reality. It also helps if the jokes are funny. Fail on these two counts and you have a play that isn’t very good. The acting was competent, it’s just that the characters were shockers and some of the lines embarrassingly bad.
Having said all of that, some people like this kind of thing. Apparently My Fair Lawyer has been filling The Tap Gallery theatre for a couple of weeks now, and although the audience was half capacity on my night of attendance, lots of mostly older folks’ bottoms were indeed falling all the way off. So maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about. Maybe this is actually good comedy. And maybe I will be a fairy princess when I grow up.
Tap Gallery until 3 June.
Quick
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