Last night I met a friend at the pub. She's visiting from OS, was drinking with friends, a couple I haven't met. Big hug from her. Really good to see her. Checked that everyone was right for drink because it was almost closing (I'd come straight from a play). Walked inside, got drinks and came back out onto the landing. One of the other guys came over and told me that one of the girls I hadn't met had watched me walk away, then told them that I "have a really sexy walk for a guy."
Um... do you know what that kind of thing does to you? Just in case you've never been told by a stranger that you have a sexy walk, I'll tell you what it does to you. It makes you laugh and joke about practising and you brush it off. But you look at the girl who said it and you just kind of repeat the phrase to yourself. Then you say to your girlfriend, "See?" with a thumb to the chest. "Sexy walk. Me. And I wasn't even trying. Lucky you." Then you don't want to get up from the table because you know everyone is going to be checking out this sexy walk of yours. And you think how is it sexy? What the hell am I doing that someone thinks I have a sexy walk? Was it just a freak bit of walking or is my regular walk sexy? Maybe I just swivelled my hips to negotiate around a table. Or maybe it really is just a sexy walk. Is it just her or do people in the street every day go phwoar - check out the way he walks... sex-eee...
And then the next day you get really retarded and start walking around with that Bee Gee's song in your head. "Aaaaaahhhh... well you can tell by the way I use my walk, I'm a woman's man, no time for talk..." And you look around to see if anyone is noticing the way you walk. And you check yourself in shop windows because you really want to know what it is about this one foot in front of the other business that makes a person say it's sexy.
Re. Tard.
"Aaaaah... well you can tell by the way I use my walk..."
Thursday, September 28, 2006
An Audience With Insecurity
Wrote this review, and look at these funny people. This was the smallest, most polite, easily amused audience I've ever seen. I like theatrical humour. I'm soft as a reviewer for various reasons, but seriously, check out what this ridiculous support group has to say. The pompous attitude they are starting to take is that if I didn't laugh it's because the jokes went over my head, not because I didn't find them funny. Apparently you need a degree in cabaret to understand the secret complexities of the humour this particular show. Uh, no, not really.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
VagueLee
No energy to write anything entertaining today... although I did think this was worth sharing: got a call from The Dreaded One yesterday. She was in the shop going through the books, and she said she thought that I might have done something really silly. That she was talking about me and bank accounts made me wonder not whether it was possible that I had done something silly, but just how silly the thing was.
Couple of weeks ago I was transferring my shop pay, the meagre wages we pay ourselves for time spent working in the shop. Somehow I managed to transfer my pay out of my personal account and into the shop's business account. I subsequently went back to the more orthodox system of paying myself rather than paying for the opportunity of working here, but I quite probably would have never picked it up.
Do I win the tiara for Vaguest Creature In The Universe, or can someone top that one?
Couple of weeks ago I was transferring my shop pay, the meagre wages we pay ourselves for time spent working in the shop. Somehow I managed to transfer my pay out of my personal account and into the shop's business account. I subsequently went back to the more orthodox system of paying myself rather than paying for the opportunity of working here, but I quite probably would have never picked it up.
Do I win the tiara for Vaguest Creature In The Universe, or can someone top that one?
Saturday, September 23, 2006
A Star Is Born
I was supposed to work on a story today, but I wrote this instead. It's my next Grumpy column for a magazine in Queensland. Enjoy.
Grumpy
I fucking love it when inspiration falls with a splat right at your feet. Just the other night I was dicking with the telephone adapter and recorder, trying to figure out where all the bits go. It’s a dead easy process that involves pulling one plug out and putting another in, but remembering which plug and which socket is the complicated part because they all look the same. This has happened before when there has been pressure on with the interviewee having promised to call back in five minutes. Tension. Sweat. No time for mistakes. I do the switch and pick up the phone. No tone. Damn. MacGyver goes back in...
Erm... anyway, I was doing my MacGyver routine when the line from a really bad movie drifted in from the telly in the other room. It was a disaster (of a) movie about great big storms and Brian Dennehy was chewing out his staff because they hadn’t shouted “Run for your lives – it’s a great big storm and it’s heading right for us!” early enough. He totally bawled them out with this bit of poetry: “People DIED because we didn’t do our job properly. Now from now on if a dawg farts in Duluth, I wanna know about it!”
I put down my confusion of plugs and sockets because here was inspiration. This was my lucky break. You see, recently I started playing a male nurse on a popular hospital drama. I’m an extra, Ricky Gervais stylee. And my inspiration is to fast track my acting career. When I’m on the set next week, I’m going to shake shit up. I’m going to take things into my own hands. As a good friend encouraged, I’m gonna do it! I’m gonna own it!
When the director says action, this extra is going to seize the day. I’m going to stride over to the main characters just as they’re about to deliver their lines. I’m going to silence them with a raised hand, and I’m going to stun all on set with my awesome (if startling) acting skills.
“People DIIIIIED!” I’m going to snarl in my Brian Dennehyiest voice as I thrust my finger into the head doctor’s chest. “You wanna know why they died? They died because WE... you and me... and her... all of us here in this emergency room... WE didn’t do our job properly. Now from now on, if a dawg so much as farts in Duluth, I wanna know about it! Am I making myself perfectly fuck-in’ clear?”
Ah, sweet inspiration. This extra is going places.
Grumpy
I fucking love it when inspiration falls with a splat right at your feet. Just the other night I was dicking with the telephone adapter and recorder, trying to figure out where all the bits go. It’s a dead easy process that involves pulling one plug out and putting another in, but remembering which plug and which socket is the complicated part because they all look the same. This has happened before when there has been pressure on with the interviewee having promised to call back in five minutes. Tension. Sweat. No time for mistakes. I do the switch and pick up the phone. No tone. Damn. MacGyver goes back in...
Erm... anyway, I was doing my MacGyver routine when the line from a really bad movie drifted in from the telly in the other room. It was a disaster (of a) movie about great big storms and Brian Dennehy was chewing out his staff because they hadn’t shouted “Run for your lives – it’s a great big storm and it’s heading right for us!” early enough. He totally bawled them out with this bit of poetry: “People DIED because we didn’t do our job properly. Now from now on if a dawg farts in Duluth, I wanna know about it!”
I put down my confusion of plugs and sockets because here was inspiration. This was my lucky break. You see, recently I started playing a male nurse on a popular hospital drama. I’m an extra, Ricky Gervais stylee. And my inspiration is to fast track my acting career. When I’m on the set next week, I’m going to shake shit up. I’m going to take things into my own hands. As a good friend encouraged, I’m gonna do it! I’m gonna own it!
When the director says action, this extra is going to seize the day. I’m going to stride over to the main characters just as they’re about to deliver their lines. I’m going to silence them with a raised hand, and I’m going to stun all on set with my awesome (if startling) acting skills.
“People DIIIIIED!” I’m going to snarl in my Brian Dennehyiest voice as I thrust my finger into the head doctor’s chest. “You wanna know why they died? They died because WE... you and me... and her... all of us here in this emergency room... WE didn’t do our job properly. Now from now on, if a dawg so much as farts in Duluth, I wanna know about it! Am I making myself perfectly fuck-in’ clear?”
Ah, sweet inspiration. This extra is going places.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Arse Line
I have no real recollection of where it happened, but my memory is of hearing someone say quite earnestly something about something 'ruining my arse line.' It struck me as the funniest, most ludicrously vain thing to say, and I said to The Dreaded One "Did you hear what they said?"
Naturally I've been saying it ever since. You have to say it in a slightly petulant tone, furrowed brow, like you're trying to solve one of the universe's great mysteries. "Ooh - I just can't put my wallet in the pocket of these jeans - it completely ruins my arse line."
It comes out deadpan, and The Dreaded One knows it's a joke, and we've done it so many times that neither of us even bothers laughing or indicating in any way that this is our little joke.
But the guy at the traffic lights who overhears it, he doesn't know it's a joke. He looks sideways at me to see what kind of vain twat would get all sooky about their wallet ruining their arse line and later he probably tells his girlfriend, "I was standing at the lights today and you wouldn't believe what this twat actually said. He said ooh I can't possibly put my wallet in these jeans because..."
And on it goes.
Naturally I've been saying it ever since. You have to say it in a slightly petulant tone, furrowed brow, like you're trying to solve one of the universe's great mysteries. "Ooh - I just can't put my wallet in the pocket of these jeans - it completely ruins my arse line."
It comes out deadpan, and The Dreaded One knows it's a joke, and we've done it so many times that neither of us even bothers laughing or indicating in any way that this is our little joke.
But the guy at the traffic lights who overhears it, he doesn't know it's a joke. He looks sideways at me to see what kind of vain twat would get all sooky about their wallet ruining their arse line and later he probably tells his girlfriend, "I was standing at the lights today and you wouldn't believe what this twat actually said. He said ooh I can't possibly put my wallet in these jeans because..."
And on it goes.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Self-censorship Is Gay
I wrote a post the other day that I deleted because I thought it was a little harsh. It amused me and it was just something that happened, but there was someone else I thought might drop by this blog who was on the set this particular day and we'd had some really nice chats about fiction and writing and I dunno, the thought of her seeing a side of me that was not so nice just made me censor myself.
However after seeing part of a Bill Hicks DVD last night and reading about a guy called Sam Kinison this morning, I just kinda thought fuck it, sometimes you've just gotta tell it like it is.
Scroll down a couple of posts if you're interested. It's the one with Ricky Gervais in the title. Given the no holds barred approach of the amazingly funny Bill Hicks, it's actually quite tame. And it doesn't come close to capturing the slow minutes that oozed by as this prick inflicted his pathetic, misguided bitterness on my otherwise positive mood.
However after seeing part of a Bill Hicks DVD last night and reading about a guy called Sam Kinison this morning, I just kinda thought fuck it, sometimes you've just gotta tell it like it is.
Scroll down a couple of posts if you're interested. It's the one with Ricky Gervais in the title. Given the no holds barred approach of the amazingly funny Bill Hicks, it's actually quite tame. And it doesn't come close to capturing the slow minutes that oozed by as this prick inflicted his pathetic, misguided bitterness on my otherwise positive mood.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Theatre Terrorism
Saw a play called Terrorism on Saturday night and wrote my review of it when I got home. I was a little drinkified at the time of writing, and the following day at Earthdance when roaringly drinkified (not that I roar a hell of a lot) I couldn’t remember what I wrote in the review. Just now I opened the mag and read with trepidation, but it’s okay. I don’t think you can tell I was a little squiffed.
In the review I refer to a bonehead in the audience who went “Aaaahhh…” in two syllables when the penny dropped for him. Just thought he’d let those around him know that he knew what was going on. What the fuck is wrong with these people? We’re all watching the same play, dumbfuck. It’s not a competition to see who ‘gets it’ first. And in any case, why is it that the people who feel this need to let everyone else know they get it seem to get it so much later than everyone else?
Worse than this bonehead, though, was the guy eating something wrapped in crinkly plastic. You get these retards in movie theatres and you kind of expect it, and probably avoid movie theatres because of these people. But in a drama theatre? It just went on and on and when I looked over my shoulder and locked my death rays on him, the sorry fucker just kept on crinkling away, all of his attention taken up with the muesli bar that he was peeeeling like a banana. Slowly slowly, crinkle crinkle, munch munch. Do that shit outside, for fuck sake. And why was no one telling him to stop it? The people sitting directly next to him or behind him, it was their duty to give him grief. Bah! Humans!
At another point in the play, two of the actors get their kit off. Both were good looking and in great shape, especially her. They were doing a bedroom scene that changed in mood from sexy to playful to tense to darkly dramatic. Due to the lying down nature of the scene and the guy in front of me with the strangely conical head and wiry hair, do you think I got more than the most frustrating glimpses of the actress’s gorgeously naked body? I mean her courageous acting talent? Conehead was effectively censoring the whole scene for me. It was fine while they were standing up, but that lasted all of a minute or so, then they got into bed and a bit of bondage ensued and all I saw was Hair Of Conehead. Situation like that, you can’t exactly lean over to see or ask the guy to please change the shape of his head. I mean, this is theatre, all sophisticated and stuff. One crane of the neck and everyone is going to be thinking “Look - it’s that sweaty perv guy.”
Needless to say, The Dreaded One was greatly amused when I told her I saw bugger all of the nudey action, because she had a clear view of everything.
Anyway, it was a good play. So good I might just pop along to see it again...
In the review I refer to a bonehead in the audience who went “Aaaahhh…” in two syllables when the penny dropped for him. Just thought he’d let those around him know that he knew what was going on. What the fuck is wrong with these people? We’re all watching the same play, dumbfuck. It’s not a competition to see who ‘gets it’ first. And in any case, why is it that the people who feel this need to let everyone else know they get it seem to get it so much later than everyone else?
Worse than this bonehead, though, was the guy eating something wrapped in crinkly plastic. You get these retards in movie theatres and you kind of expect it, and probably avoid movie theatres because of these people. But in a drama theatre? It just went on and on and when I looked over my shoulder and locked my death rays on him, the sorry fucker just kept on crinkling away, all of his attention taken up with the muesli bar that he was peeeeling like a banana. Slowly slowly, crinkle crinkle, munch munch. Do that shit outside, for fuck sake. And why was no one telling him to stop it? The people sitting directly next to him or behind him, it was their duty to give him grief. Bah! Humans!
At another point in the play, two of the actors get their kit off. Both were good looking and in great shape, especially her. They were doing a bedroom scene that changed in mood from sexy to playful to tense to darkly dramatic. Due to the lying down nature of the scene and the guy in front of me with the strangely conical head and wiry hair, do you think I got more than the most frustrating glimpses of the actress’s gorgeously naked body? I mean her courageous acting talent? Conehead was effectively censoring the whole scene for me. It was fine while they were standing up, but that lasted all of a minute or so, then they got into bed and a bit of bondage ensued and all I saw was Hair Of Conehead. Situation like that, you can’t exactly lean over to see or ask the guy to please change the shape of his head. I mean, this is theatre, all sophisticated and stuff. One crane of the neck and everyone is going to be thinking “Look - it’s that sweaty perv guy.”
Needless to say, The Dreaded One was greatly amused when I told her I saw bugger all of the nudey action, because she had a clear view of everything.
Anyway, it was a good play. So good I might just pop along to see it again...
Monday, September 18, 2006
What A Wunnerful Weekend
That was the kind of weekend I could spend forever with. Saturday was really cool in the shop, making people happy. Saturday night I saw a play called Terrorism. Black comedy, bloody enjoyable. Grabbed wine and pizza at a pizza place on Darlinghurst road and sat on the street in mild weather, wrote the review later that night because I had a feeling Earthdance the next day was going to be bendy. Bent it was.
Arrived early for the peace ceremony. Lots of our alternative friends were already there. I reckon that more than 90% of the people who attend Earthdance only come for the party and couldn't give a shit about the point of it all. Heathens. (This was the first year I wasn't a heathen).
Anyway, it was just an awesome day full of catching up, laughter, silliness, sunburn dancing dancing and more dancing. The Dreaded One was on a mission and I'm still rarely able to say no to a mission. I keep thinking the party animal is dead, but apparently not. The psytrance stage was the only place to be, and someone non-psytrance observed when walking by that area that the place was going off. Everyone should experience that kind of vibe. While the other punters were treating their music like background music, the psy fraternity had jugglers, fire twirlers and colourfully-attired stompers going nuts by midday.
Long story short, 8 hours of intense stomping wasn't enough so we kicked on to the after party for several more hours. Sore from it all? Fuck yeah. But when it's that much fun, what can you do?
I need food tonight though. Lamb shank and vegetable stew, red wine, nourishment.
Arrived early for the peace ceremony. Lots of our alternative friends were already there. I reckon that more than 90% of the people who attend Earthdance only come for the party and couldn't give a shit about the point of it all. Heathens. (This was the first year I wasn't a heathen).
Anyway, it was just an awesome day full of catching up, laughter, silliness, sunburn dancing dancing and more dancing. The Dreaded One was on a mission and I'm still rarely able to say no to a mission. I keep thinking the party animal is dead, but apparently not. The psytrance stage was the only place to be, and someone non-psytrance observed when walking by that area that the place was going off. Everyone should experience that kind of vibe. While the other punters were treating their music like background music, the psy fraternity had jugglers, fire twirlers and colourfully-attired stompers going nuts by midday.
Long story short, 8 hours of intense stomping wasn't enough so we kicked on to the after party for several more hours. Sore from it all? Fuck yeah. But when it's that much fun, what can you do?
I need food tonight though. Lamb shank and vegetable stew, red wine, nourishment.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Peace & Ha Money
Finished my third day of being a male nurse on All Saints. I'm so used to walking up to people and miming now that I feel the urge to do it to real people. Bloody funny thing to have to do. As is being a 'wipe'. I have been a wipe. I am a wipe on many occasions in this episode. A wipe is when you are not a blur in the background but a close up blur. You walk quickly by just centimetres away from the camera to give the effect of... well someone walking by just centimetres away from the camera.
Funny how devices such as the wipe are somehow supposed to heighten the reality, yet what they are really doing is drawing attention to the fact that there is a camera present. Much like the hand-held look. Like, when you look around at a room full of people in actual real life, your vision doesn't pop in and out of focus. And you don't zoom in on a chair leg when someone is speaking... hmm, maybe sometimes.
Just had my two stories confirmed as being in the Age comp. Excitement. Wonder if I can enter a third.
Exciting too is the fact that Kolliope are coming to Sydney for their first gig. Raved about their album Oracles & Glands before. My love affair with it has not diminished. I am looking forward to it so much. And they've said they're going to come into the shop. And I'm going to have to try hard not to act like a gushing groupie when I catch up with them. I am in awe of anyone who can make such seriously magical music.
Off to see a black comedy called Terrorism tonight. Going alone because The Dreaded One will still be at work. Would change it to tomorrow night but the review has to be in on Sunday, and Sunday is Earthdance. Earthdance will see me quite scootered, I am sure, and in no fit state to write anything coherent.
Told someone before that this year I plan to go to Earthdance early to attend the prayer for peace ceremony. Not sure what happens but I thought it would be amusing to ask someone if this was where the prayer for large sums of money took place.
"Sorry dude, this is the prayer for peace."
"Oh. Pardon me. My mistake. Wrong prayer. I'm actually after the lots of money one."
Seriously, I think the ceremony will be interesting. I don't do much spiritual stuff, and although I believe humanity is beyond prayer, I don't think there's any harm in joining in.
After the ceremony, of course, like everyone else in Sydney park and at various venues around the world at the same time, I'm gonna party my arse off. 20, 000 people expected at Sydney Park at the end of King Street in St Peters. Awesome.
Funny how devices such as the wipe are somehow supposed to heighten the reality, yet what they are really doing is drawing attention to the fact that there is a camera present. Much like the hand-held look. Like, when you look around at a room full of people in actual real life, your vision doesn't pop in and out of focus. And you don't zoom in on a chair leg when someone is speaking... hmm, maybe sometimes.
Just had my two stories confirmed as being in the Age comp. Excitement. Wonder if I can enter a third.
Exciting too is the fact that Kolliope are coming to Sydney for their first gig. Raved about their album Oracles & Glands before. My love affair with it has not diminished. I am looking forward to it so much. And they've said they're going to come into the shop. And I'm going to have to try hard not to act like a gushing groupie when I catch up with them. I am in awe of anyone who can make such seriously magical music.
Off to see a black comedy called Terrorism tonight. Going alone because The Dreaded One will still be at work. Would change it to tomorrow night but the review has to be in on Sunday, and Sunday is Earthdance. Earthdance will see me quite scootered, I am sure, and in no fit state to write anything coherent.
Told someone before that this year I plan to go to Earthdance early to attend the prayer for peace ceremony. Not sure what happens but I thought it would be amusing to ask someone if this was where the prayer for large sums of money took place.
"Sorry dude, this is the prayer for peace."
"Oh. Pardon me. My mistake. Wrong prayer. I'm actually after the lots of money one."
Seriously, I think the ceremony will be interesting. I don't do much spiritual stuff, and although I believe humanity is beyond prayer, I don't think there's any harm in joining in.
After the ceremony, of course, like everyone else in Sydney park and at various venues around the world at the same time, I'm gonna party my arse off. 20, 000 people expected at Sydney Park at the end of King Street in St Peters. Awesome.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Ricky Gervais Ain't Got Nothin' On This
Being a freelance writer, my average working week is a bit of a Frankenstein’s Monster. Bit of retail, bit of hospitality, bit of being an extra on a popular Australian drama. That’s okay, because when part of your freelance output is writing observational pieces, you need something to observe.
When I arrived in the green room on the set of said popular drama, I was confronted with a motley collection extras of several ethnic backgrounds, one or two genders and a wide variety of ages. All were dressed as the kind of people you are likely to encounter in the emergency wing of a hospital. You know, doctors, nurses, ambulance drivers, patients and visitors.
A few extras seemed to know each other and were chatting amongst themselves. Others didn’t know each other and had The Extras Chat, invariably beginning with “Been doing this long?” or “Been getting much work?” or “Is this your first job?”
A few others were reading books or magazines and that was okay. Many hours ahead and you pass the time away however you like, within reason. I decided, for now, to be a reader. Plenty of opportunity for The Extras Chat later in the day.
Cut to later in the day and I’ve chatted to a few people. I see this one old guy who made a little joke earlier that made me think about how we under-estimate old people. My natural tendency is just to gravitate to younger, more fun-sounding people, and that, I decided, was fucked up. This old guy had been young once. He’d lived a full life, yet no one was bothering to talk to him (or any of the other wrinklies, other than the other wrinklies). Everyone else, it seemed, also just wanted to hang out with the good looking crowd. I decided to correct a little injustice in the world and talk to the old feller. I decided that I was going to talk to this old guy dressed as a patient, with his little funny slippers and his daggy robe and his rheumy eyes, papery skin and his liver spots because one day I might be old too, and fuck it, I’ve got loads of funny stories I hope I’ll be able to share with the young folk. I felt an inner glow that almost brought a tear to my eye. “Yes,” I patted myself on the back, “you are a really nice guy after all.”
Let me say here that, sure, there might be some old folk out there with rollicking tales to tell, but there are some you should not under any circumstances encourage because when all is said and done, they are boring old cunts of the highest order. Guess which category this old fucker fell into? Christ, he looked harmless enough, but talking to him was like poking a terrier with a stick, and he was about to attempt to savage me with the most relentless onslaught of boredom I’d ever encountered.
For space reasons, I’m going to condense this into one monologue. What I am not going to do is embellish... or unembellish, as is probably the correct term when speaking of such mind-numbing tedium...
Me: “So, you do much of this kind of work?”
Boring Old Twat: “Well, I’ve only just started doing it again after a break of five years, but before that, yairs, I used to do a lot. Speaking parts are the best and they’re more interesting because they make things more interesting. But they’re not always that easy to get. In fact they are very hard to get. I... I have had speaking parts but just not all that many because you know, things can let you down. Things like people always let you down. You know, sometimes I got a late call once and had to stay up late learning my lines, and it was an early start oh by geez by the time you learn your line you’ve forgotten that you have to act it. You have to act it as well as say it y’know, and anyway, after that they never called me back.
“And this other time my wife and I were going to do a ballroom dancing scene and at the last minute the wife couldn’t make it so they teamed me up with a woman who SAID she could ballroom dance but ooh she was awful, so I didn’t get that job because of her. It’s all about the people you work with, they can all let you down.
“My son has written this script and y’know? I think it’s pretty good. A lot better than most of the rubbish on today. It’s drama – with some comedy... hehe... but mostly it’s a really good drama. He launched it very successfully on his website and lots of people have told him that they think it’s a good idea, and all the production companies have said it needs to be half hour episodes or one hour episodes and they’re minor quibbles. They don’t seem to be able to look past the minor quibbles to see what a good idea it would be.
“He even flew to America to a conference with it and someone at the conference who was from England said come to England and we can have a meeting about it so he flew to England and they said, ‘Did we say come to England for a meeting? We don’t remember saying that.’ It doesn’t seem to be about how good it is so much as who you know. My son has also gone for so many jobs as a TV presenter and do you think he ever gets the presenter’s job? No way. They always give it to someone who’s been a presenter before or is an actor of good repute.
“He’s reluctant to show many people the script or tell them too much about it in case they steal the idea. So far he’s lucky because after showing it to all the people he’s shown it to, no one has stolen the idea.
“My son always wanted to be an actor but he thought we’d say it wasn’t a real job. So he was a hairdresser for a while and a cook and one day he started a magazine that’s still around. It’s called Flower Fragrance and it caused a bit of a stir. It’s about funerals. It’s about how much different funerals cost and the kinds of coffins you can get and he’s pretty smart, my son. Saw a hole in the market and started a magazine.
“Then he started another magazine that caused almost as big a stir as the funeral one. This one was a medical diagnosis book called Medical Diagnosis – maybe you’ve heard of it? No? You write all your ailments in it and it tells you what’s wrong with you so you don’t need to see a doctor. Some people didn’t like it, but you know, all sorts of people were giving it to people as presents and things...”
This is a truncated version. I was lectured on a word definition at one stage and informed knowledgably that theatre reviewing probably consisted mainly of making sure the right adjective was used and that I must check Roget's Thesaurus a lot. Wot? Miserable and bitter old prick just would not shut up. Early on I’d made the mistake of telling him that I was a freelance editor and writer, and that’s how the whole sorry business about his son’s brilliant script came up, and at the end of his life story he asked for my card because maybe the script needs to be completely re-written. Fucker followed me into the green room. I had my nose buried in my book – a Do Not Disturb sign if ever there was one because I simply was not going to have my day ruined like this, and this diabolical knob stood over me and kept talking and asking for my card. Christ in a Zimmer frame – why hadn’t I ever thought to keep a few fake business cards handy for just such an occasion?
Anyway, lesson learned. Don’t talk to old people. They suck.
When I arrived in the green room on the set of said popular drama, I was confronted with a motley collection extras of several ethnic backgrounds, one or two genders and a wide variety of ages. All were dressed as the kind of people you are likely to encounter in the emergency wing of a hospital. You know, doctors, nurses, ambulance drivers, patients and visitors.
A few extras seemed to know each other and were chatting amongst themselves. Others didn’t know each other and had The Extras Chat, invariably beginning with “Been doing this long?” or “Been getting much work?” or “Is this your first job?”
A few others were reading books or magazines and that was okay. Many hours ahead and you pass the time away however you like, within reason. I decided, for now, to be a reader. Plenty of opportunity for The Extras Chat later in the day.
Cut to later in the day and I’ve chatted to a few people. I see this one old guy who made a little joke earlier that made me think about how we under-estimate old people. My natural tendency is just to gravitate to younger, more fun-sounding people, and that, I decided, was fucked up. This old guy had been young once. He’d lived a full life, yet no one was bothering to talk to him (or any of the other wrinklies, other than the other wrinklies). Everyone else, it seemed, also just wanted to hang out with the good looking crowd. I decided to correct a little injustice in the world and talk to the old feller. I decided that I was going to talk to this old guy dressed as a patient, with his little funny slippers and his daggy robe and his rheumy eyes, papery skin and his liver spots because one day I might be old too, and fuck it, I’ve got loads of funny stories I hope I’ll be able to share with the young folk. I felt an inner glow that almost brought a tear to my eye. “Yes,” I patted myself on the back, “you are a really nice guy after all.”
Let me say here that, sure, there might be some old folk out there with rollicking tales to tell, but there are some you should not under any circumstances encourage because when all is said and done, they are boring old cunts of the highest order. Guess which category this old fucker fell into? Christ, he looked harmless enough, but talking to him was like poking a terrier with a stick, and he was about to attempt to savage me with the most relentless onslaught of boredom I’d ever encountered.
For space reasons, I’m going to condense this into one monologue. What I am not going to do is embellish... or unembellish, as is probably the correct term when speaking of such mind-numbing tedium...
Me: “So, you do much of this kind of work?”
Boring Old Twat: “Well, I’ve only just started doing it again after a break of five years, but before that, yairs, I used to do a lot. Speaking parts are the best and they’re more interesting because they make things more interesting. But they’re not always that easy to get. In fact they are very hard to get. I... I have had speaking parts but just not all that many because you know, things can let you down. Things like people always let you down. You know, sometimes I got a late call once and had to stay up late learning my lines, and it was an early start oh by geez by the time you learn your line you’ve forgotten that you have to act it. You have to act it as well as say it y’know, and anyway, after that they never called me back.
“And this other time my wife and I were going to do a ballroom dancing scene and at the last minute the wife couldn’t make it so they teamed me up with a woman who SAID she could ballroom dance but ooh she was awful, so I didn’t get that job because of her. It’s all about the people you work with, they can all let you down.
“My son has written this script and y’know? I think it’s pretty good. A lot better than most of the rubbish on today. It’s drama – with some comedy... hehe... but mostly it’s a really good drama. He launched it very successfully on his website and lots of people have told him that they think it’s a good idea, and all the production companies have said it needs to be half hour episodes or one hour episodes and they’re minor quibbles. They don’t seem to be able to look past the minor quibbles to see what a good idea it would be.
“He even flew to America to a conference with it and someone at the conference who was from England said come to England and we can have a meeting about it so he flew to England and they said, ‘Did we say come to England for a meeting? We don’t remember saying that.’ It doesn’t seem to be about how good it is so much as who you know. My son has also gone for so many jobs as a TV presenter and do you think he ever gets the presenter’s job? No way. They always give it to someone who’s been a presenter before or is an actor of good repute.
“He’s reluctant to show many people the script or tell them too much about it in case they steal the idea. So far he’s lucky because after showing it to all the people he’s shown it to, no one has stolen the idea.
“My son always wanted to be an actor but he thought we’d say it wasn’t a real job. So he was a hairdresser for a while and a cook and one day he started a magazine that’s still around. It’s called Flower Fragrance and it caused a bit of a stir. It’s about funerals. It’s about how much different funerals cost and the kinds of coffins you can get and he’s pretty smart, my son. Saw a hole in the market and started a magazine.
“Then he started another magazine that caused almost as big a stir as the funeral one. This one was a medical diagnosis book called Medical Diagnosis – maybe you’ve heard of it? No? You write all your ailments in it and it tells you what’s wrong with you so you don’t need to see a doctor. Some people didn’t like it, but you know, all sorts of people were giving it to people as presents and things...”
This is a truncated version. I was lectured on a word definition at one stage and informed knowledgably that theatre reviewing probably consisted mainly of making sure the right adjective was used and that I must check Roget's Thesaurus a lot. Wot? Miserable and bitter old prick just would not shut up. Early on I’d made the mistake of telling him that I was a freelance editor and writer, and that’s how the whole sorry business about his son’s brilliant script came up, and at the end of his life story he asked for my card because maybe the script needs to be completely re-written. Fucker followed me into the green room. I had my nose buried in my book – a Do Not Disturb sign if ever there was one because I simply was not going to have my day ruined like this, and this diabolical knob stood over me and kept talking and asking for my card. Christ in a Zimmer frame – why hadn’t I ever thought to keep a few fake business cards handy for just such an occasion?
Anyway, lesson learned. Don’t talk to old people. They suck.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Extras Long Story, Extra Short Story
After a totally relaxing day yesterday I looked up where I had to go for this extras job. Channel 7. The Dreaded One said she thought it was in Pyrmont, just down by Darling Harbour. I looked it up, she appeared to be right. I got her to drop me off with 10 minutes to spare. She drove off and as I entered the building I just knew something was wrong. This was Channel 7, but this was no studio. It was their admin head quarters and the studio is to buggery away. Agency hadn't given me a contact number and they should probably have mentioned the suburb Epping when telling me what time I had to be there. I called the agency, called The Dreaded One and there was lots of stressed swearing from all concerned.
Few key words to cut a long story short: Epping. Far away. Dropped Dreaded One back home, drove with one eye on road map. Epping road at peak hour is referred to as Epping Car Park. Little blinky light insisting that tank was empty. Stress headache. Not cool for extras to be one and a half hours late.
The guy at the gate insisted my name was not on the list and I started thinking violent thoughts if the agency had put me through this for nothing. Turns out that they had also failed to tell me that I was replacing someone and the list had not been updated to include my name. Calls to assistant directors and things were finally cleared up.
I spent the next four hours in the green room reading my Jeff Noon book, with about 20 minutes or so on set being an animated blur in the background of the emergency ward.
Also, this morning I put the finishing touches on another short story I'll be entering into competition. Way excited about this second one. Even if it doesn't rate a mention in the comp, like the first one now that I have renewed enthusiasm for it (thank you Amra), I'm still going to push them post comp because I am happy with them.
Few key words to cut a long story short: Epping. Far away. Dropped Dreaded One back home, drove with one eye on road map. Epping road at peak hour is referred to as Epping Car Park. Little blinky light insisting that tank was empty. Stress headache. Not cool for extras to be one and a half hours late.
The guy at the gate insisted my name was not on the list and I started thinking violent thoughts if the agency had put me through this for nothing. Turns out that they had also failed to tell me that I was replacing someone and the list had not been updated to include my name. Calls to assistant directors and things were finally cleared up.
I spent the next four hours in the green room reading my Jeff Noon book, with about 20 minutes or so on set being an animated blur in the background of the emergency ward.
Also, this morning I put the finishing touches on another short story I'll be entering into competition. Way excited about this second one. Even if it doesn't rate a mention in the comp, like the first one now that I have renewed enthusiasm for it (thank you Amra), I'm still going to push them post comp because I am happy with them.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Introducing Doctor Luke Montgomery
So I reeeeeally don't want to work with Mr Passive Aggressive in the Opera House kitchen on Thursday (only day I'm rostered on this week) but I didn't know what else I could do. It's still money. Then the phone rings and it's the extras agency I signed with and they want to know if I want to play a male nurse in All Saints over the next three days, including a full day's shoot on Thursday. Spooky timing or what. Woo hoo!
Also, after years of missing the deadline for The Age Short Story Of The Year competition, I finally got an entry in. With enough time to spare to maybe get something else in. They change the cut-off date each year and I have always missed it by a few days, but not this year. Aaaaa hahahahahaaaa... I kick arse.
I don't expect to win, but it's fun having an entry in there.
Do male nurses get stethoscopes? I think I have to have a stethoscope to fully get into my part as Doctor Luke Montgomery, a passionate man and the driving force behind the entire emergency wing of All Saints. He works hard, he plays hard, he loves like a saint...
Erm, just diagnosed myself with Carriedawayitis.
Gotta dash.
Also, after years of missing the deadline for The Age Short Story Of The Year competition, I finally got an entry in. With enough time to spare to maybe get something else in. They change the cut-off date each year and I have always missed it by a few days, but not this year. Aaaaa hahahahahaaaa... I kick arse.
I don't expect to win, but it's fun having an entry in there.
Do male nurses get stethoscopes? I think I have to have a stethoscope to fully get into my part as Doctor Luke Montgomery, a passionate man and the driving force behind the entire emergency wing of All Saints. He works hard, he plays hard, he loves like a saint...
Erm, just diagnosed myself with Carriedawayitis.
Gotta dash.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Your Eternal Moment
Following on from the previous post, if you had to live for eternity in the memory of one moment of your life, what would that memory be?
For me it would be a morning in Spain. Barcelona in late March 2006. I woke up still nicely drunk in Pension Dali in the Gothic Quarter, just off La Rambla. Sunshine was spilling through the window, slice of pale blue sky, church bell ringing in the air. A cool breeze drifted through the open window, the whispered promise of another golden day. The chime of the bell danced with laughter and street voices chattering in a language I didn't understand.
The Dreaded One was lying across me in her familiar way. Her arm was lying loosely across my chest, her breath caressing my neck, her hand flinching occasionally with the twitch of a dream. It was one of those moments we all have, when you think if only this could last forever I would be content.
The moment itself was sublime enough on a physical level, but there was also the past and the future adding to the moment. I had quit my job. I had cut myself adrift. I had just been to Turkey to see an eclipse and I had danced in the rain and the mud and the sunshine at a week-long festival. I’d seen ancient ruins and done the kind of things I never could have believed a shy kid from the suburbs would ever do. There had been times in my former life when my family home was a caravan in someone’s garage and the future looked dull, and check me out now with my memories and my Rioja tainted breath and this beautiful woman whose presence in my life will always amaze me.
But this moment of freedom was not just about memories; it was also about the future.
Lying there drinking
in each passing second,
writing bad poetry
with my head pencil,
I thought about the day ahead and had no idea what I would do or where I would be, and I felt alive. Lying there in my cheap little room that may as well have been a palace, I thought about where I would be in a few days. I was heading to England again and I was going to see someone who felt weirdly important to me. I was going to see someone I wanted to see so much it scared me, someone who was probably the only person alive who could consistently and effortlessly draw real and hearty laughter from me. In many ways I’d prefer not to be so attached to people, but these things happen. They’re good things really.
Lying in bed that morning I felt like the luckiest fucker that ever lived. I really felt alive and I was genuinely grateful to be alive. My head was calm. The past had done its job and brought me to this place I could only have dreamed of, and I was heading for yet more happiness. Luckiest fucker that ever lived.
So that’s me. That’s my eternal moment. Got through the past, grateful for the present, looking forward to the future.
What would your moment be?
For me it would be a morning in Spain. Barcelona in late March 2006. I woke up still nicely drunk in Pension Dali in the Gothic Quarter, just off La Rambla. Sunshine was spilling through the window, slice of pale blue sky, church bell ringing in the air. A cool breeze drifted through the open window, the whispered promise of another golden day. The chime of the bell danced with laughter and street voices chattering in a language I didn't understand.
The Dreaded One was lying across me in her familiar way. Her arm was lying loosely across my chest, her breath caressing my neck, her hand flinching occasionally with the twitch of a dream. It was one of those moments we all have, when you think if only this could last forever I would be content.
The moment itself was sublime enough on a physical level, but there was also the past and the future adding to the moment. I had quit my job. I had cut myself adrift. I had just been to Turkey to see an eclipse and I had danced in the rain and the mud and the sunshine at a week-long festival. I’d seen ancient ruins and done the kind of things I never could have believed a shy kid from the suburbs would ever do. There had been times in my former life when my family home was a caravan in someone’s garage and the future looked dull, and check me out now with my memories and my Rioja tainted breath and this beautiful woman whose presence in my life will always amaze me.
But this moment of freedom was not just about memories; it was also about the future.
Lying there drinking
in each passing second,
writing bad poetry
with my head pencil,
I thought about the day ahead and had no idea what I would do or where I would be, and I felt alive. Lying there in my cheap little room that may as well have been a palace, I thought about where I would be in a few days. I was heading to England again and I was going to see someone who felt weirdly important to me. I was going to see someone I wanted to see so much it scared me, someone who was probably the only person alive who could consistently and effortlessly draw real and hearty laughter from me. In many ways I’d prefer not to be so attached to people, but these things happen. They’re good things really.
Lying in bed that morning I felt like the luckiest fucker that ever lived. I really felt alive and I was genuinely grateful to be alive. My head was calm. The past had done its job and brought me to this place I could only have dreamed of, and I was heading for yet more happiness. Luckiest fucker that ever lived.
So that’s me. That’s my eternal moment. Got through the past, grateful for the present, looking forward to the future.
What would your moment be?
Saturday, September 09, 2006
100 Review
Here's my review for the play 100, out in Drum Media on Tuesday. Drum is a magazine so there's no link, so here it is. If you're a Sydney-sider, check the play out. I really think this is delicious theatre.
I think I have my eternal moment, going to post something about that tomorrow.
100
Let’s not beat about the bush here: this is excellent theatre. The concept is excellent, the acting is excellent, the production is excellent... seriously, there was excellence flying about all over the place at The Lock Up last Friday night. If anyone with an appreciation of theatre sees 100 and genuinely doesn’t enjoy it, get in touch with me and we can discuss it over a drink. My shout*.
In a play loosely inspired by Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s 100 Years Of Solitude, four recently deceased characters find themselves in limbo between life and death. They must choose the memory of one moment in their life in which to spend eternity. There is a time limit, they must choose quickly and the memory must be the essence of the person’s heart. No other memory will exist.
The characters’ lives unfold as memories are recounted and found to be not quite suitable, proceedings conducted and the characters’ predicament explained by a mysterious, otherworldly host. With the only props being four sticks, an orange and a couple of boxes, we are taken on a motorcycle race, to an office Christmas party, a children’s playground, a domestic home and the Amazon Rainforest. Fun stuff.
The characters are average people who have lead ordinary lives, and you can relate to them and feel for them as they rummage through their ordinariness to find that little bit of magic they will exist with forever.
There is no doubt Zach Lee’s performance will be the one that will leave the biggest impression; once again it was The Business, both as the deathly and slightly maniacal guide as well as the other minor characters he slipped into. But there were no creaky performances from the others – all played their main characters as well as minor characters with a deftness that was an absolute joy to watch.
No matter what drives you or what values you adhere to, you will come away looking at your own existence and wondering which moment from your own life you would choose, and the answer might have some of us re-assessing our priorities. It’s that kind of play.
If you have to choose one play and one play only between now and November 4 that is the essence of good theatre, I think 100 should be that play.
*Conditions apply.
LB
I think I have my eternal moment, going to post something about that tomorrow.
100
Let’s not beat about the bush here: this is excellent theatre. The concept is excellent, the acting is excellent, the production is excellent... seriously, there was excellence flying about all over the place at The Lock Up last Friday night. If anyone with an appreciation of theatre sees 100 and genuinely doesn’t enjoy it, get in touch with me and we can discuss it over a drink. My shout*.
In a play loosely inspired by Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s 100 Years Of Solitude, four recently deceased characters find themselves in limbo between life and death. They must choose the memory of one moment in their life in which to spend eternity. There is a time limit, they must choose quickly and the memory must be the essence of the person’s heart. No other memory will exist.
The characters’ lives unfold as memories are recounted and found to be not quite suitable, proceedings conducted and the characters’ predicament explained by a mysterious, otherworldly host. With the only props being four sticks, an orange and a couple of boxes, we are taken on a motorcycle race, to an office Christmas party, a children’s playground, a domestic home and the Amazon Rainforest. Fun stuff.
The characters are average people who have lead ordinary lives, and you can relate to them and feel for them as they rummage through their ordinariness to find that little bit of magic they will exist with forever.
There is no doubt Zach Lee’s performance will be the one that will leave the biggest impression; once again it was The Business, both as the deathly and slightly maniacal guide as well as the other minor characters he slipped into. But there were no creaky performances from the others – all played their main characters as well as minor characters with a deftness that was an absolute joy to watch.
No matter what drives you or what values you adhere to, you will come away looking at your own existence and wondering which moment from your own life you would choose, and the answer might have some of us re-assessing our priorities. It’s that kind of play.
If you have to choose one play and one play only between now and November 4 that is the essence of good theatre, I think 100 should be that play.
*Conditions apply.
LB
Friday, September 08, 2006
Eternal Memory
This gig at the Opera House has got to end. There have been some good people there, but the head "chef" at the moment is just not a nomal person. Spends all day picking me up on stupid little details... you know what? I don't even want to go into it. He's just the worst kind of passive aggressive fuckwit you could have the misfortune of dealing with. In a nutshell, he made me realise that true stupidity is to think a person is stupid simply because they don't know the same things you know. He is a very sad and ugly person, and I don't like being around sad and ugly people (and by ugly here I don't bald 'n big ears ugly).
Nice to be in the shop today. Big goth festival in Newtown on the weekend, so I've dismembered, undressed and re-dressed a couple of the mannequins in goth gear. The shop looks a little crazy. Kandy raver stuff going head-to-head for attention with Prince Of Darkness gear.
Have a story due in over the weekend and a play to see tonight called 100. Apparently it's influenced by 100 Years Of Solitude by Gaby baby and asks the question what memory would you choose to live in as your eternity. Cool concept. Oh - and this is the theatre company whose director told me to write an honest review when the curtain fell down and I wrote a not quite enthusiastic review. She'll be there tonight. Wonder what she'll say.
I have to write the story and the review by Sunday AND I promised I'd have two short stories ready for a short story comp by Monday SO there should be no further blogging this weekend BUT I have the entire weekend away from job work THEREFORE I wanna get drinkified and laugh at stuff AND I have no idea why I'm talking like this...
Anyway. What would you choose as your eternal memory? A fave moment in your life that you have to live in forever? I'm going to think about that and come back with my answer a little later (okay, so there goes my vow to not blog for the rest of the weekend).
Time lapse...
Back after seeing 100. Damn near perfect theatre. I totally fucking loved it. Simple. Accessible. Thought provoking. Entertaining performances. This theatre company is going to do some really good stuff. It did some magic tonight.
Nice to be in the shop today. Big goth festival in Newtown on the weekend, so I've dismembered, undressed and re-dressed a couple of the mannequins in goth gear. The shop looks a little crazy. Kandy raver stuff going head-to-head for attention with Prince Of Darkness gear.
Have a story due in over the weekend and a play to see tonight called 100. Apparently it's influenced by 100 Years Of Solitude by Gaby baby and asks the question what memory would you choose to live in as your eternity. Cool concept. Oh - and this is the theatre company whose director told me to write an honest review when the curtain fell down and I wrote a not quite enthusiastic review. She'll be there tonight. Wonder what she'll say.
I have to write the story and the review by Sunday AND I promised I'd have two short stories ready for a short story comp by Monday SO there should be no further blogging this weekend BUT I have the entire weekend away from job work THEREFORE I wanna get drinkified and laugh at stuff AND I have no idea why I'm talking like this...
Anyway. What would you choose as your eternal memory? A fave moment in your life that you have to live in forever? I'm going to think about that and come back with my answer a little later (okay, so there goes my vow to not blog for the rest of the weekend).
Time lapse...
Back after seeing 100. Damn near perfect theatre. I totally fucking loved it. Simple. Accessible. Thought provoking. Entertaining performances. This theatre company is going to do some really good stuff. It did some magic tonight.
Monday, September 04, 2006
The Cyber Dreaded One
Holy crappola. Check out The Dreaded One's new dreads. She has cyber-dreads. The cyber ones are like little tiny Slinkies, and some are highly UV reactive. We were in the theatre the other night and in one scene the lights went all UV to reveal some writing on the wall, and The Dreaded One's hair just kinda went whoomph and lit up in the dark like it had been plugged in. Pretty damn funny.Unlike the play. Here's my Drum Media review:
The Future Planners
Weird one. Wanted to like it, concept was kinda cool, but for me it just didn’t work. Guess I’ve just blown any reason you might have for wanting to read on. But just in case you’re interested, here’s this...
Plot: Bonnie has had apocalyptic visions and has chosen Greg to cohabit her post-apocalyptic bunker. They eat tinned peaches and play games and remember the past. Greg isn’t all that happy about the situation and eventually leaves.
Sounds straightforward enough and there’s a universe of possibilities to explore, but it just didn’t have that secret ingredient that pulled it all together. Granted, in the end we’re not entirely sure if the whole thing is real or imagined, but along the way it all seemed a little contrived and it’s difficult to pinpoint just why this is.
The acting was not overly engaging. It rarely escaped me that I was watching actors performing on stage. Clearly they have trained but seem yet to relax and really flesh out their characters and really be in the moment, to use a dicky phrase. They are not awful, they just didn’t seem to fit as snugly into their characters as they should have. Part of the problem here could be that writer/director/ star Stephanie Ward should perhaps think about relinquishing some control. It’s a bloody ambitious project to write, direct and star in your own work, and you’ve got to be some kind of genius or split personality to pull it off.
But the acting wasn’t the only problem. The writing itself didn’t feel quite there. Again there was a sense of This Is Theatre. It felt a little self-conscious and had far too many attempts at humour that just fell flat. The characters play games to pass the time away and I wasn’t the only one who cringed when Bonnie lost the vowel game and had to do The Thing. Just. Not. Funny.
It’s a story about obsessive love, it’s two people in a room; those two ingredients are all that is required for great theatre, and although this is not great, it’s not so bad that I wouldn’t happily choose it over a night in front of the telly.
Q
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