The Naked Chef

Speaking of chefs... what is this thing all about where they call each other "Chef"? Seriously. Because I have been masquerading as a chef as opposed to actually being one I assumed the first time someone called me "chef" they were taking the piss. Like they had seen my inner smirk at wearing a chef outfit when I am as much a chef as I am a fighter pilot.

However I quickly realised that this is simply what they call each other. You can have five chefs in a kitchen and someone says "Hey chef" and five chefs get whiplash. What is going on?

I've been a tradesman and I know it doesn't happen there. Imagine it:

"Hey Plumber. How are you?"

"Yeah good, Plumber, real good. Hey look - bloody Bricklayer's late again."

Etc.

I basically bailed on the Opera House gig because the new team moved in quick and fast and I know I can't get away with this any longer. I'm going for a part time job as a barista at a pretty cool sounding organic cafe tomorrow. I used to be pretty good at banging out quality coffee, so I'm hoping it all comes back to me.

Thing is, I now have another 14 hour shift at the Opera House with the new guys. I'll do that day, but I'm going to have to tell them that I'm a freelance writer who doesn't make enough money from writing alone. Happy to work there, I just don't want anyone to call me chef.

Which means taking off my chef outfit.

Which means cooking in the nude.

Hmm.

A Small, Good Thing

Do you remember that feeling when you were a kid when you won a prize for something? A writing thing or a class captain thing or maybe you just ran faster than the other kids when no 0ne was really expecting you to. No? Then maybe you remember what it was like when word got back to you that the girl you fancied thought you were hot too and you thought holy fuck - me? She likes me? At some point, you've had that ten-foot-tall feeling.

I had that feeling today, only the twist was that I was feeling it for The Dreaded One. She totally won today and it was because of good and right things.

She works in the kitchen of a Sydney icon. The guy above her was a fuckwit. A really awful person. Kind of guy who when travelling waiters had trouble with speaking English, he would ridicule them even though they were doing the right thing and were trying to help. Kind of guy whose presentation of food was utterly shit but who always criticised the way you arranged stuff. Kind of "chef" who liked to oversee things but would never cook. Because he couldn't. He was a malicious twat. A passive aggressive blob.

Celeb chef took over today. Axe fell. New people seem like quality people. They ditched blob, which was so obviously going to happen. But blob called The Dreaded One and told her that she had cause to worry as well. Jesus - is that being the last dickhead standing or just being delusional? It's delusional. He is a lonely and sad man.

These new people who seem to be no bullshit people want The Dreaded One to stay on. They really want her. They recognised and acknowledged integrity and decency and the hard work she put in.

Sometimes the good guys win. I'm so fucking happy about this. Really happy that this good thing happened to her.

PS - I'm really a little bit drunk right now.

Welcome To Wonderland

I'm reviewing a new DVD called Welcome To Wonderland. Double disc, one a documentary, the other a CD. It really captures the true spirit of what outdoor parties are all about. I've never been to a Melbourne doof (Earthcore aside, but I don't really count that as a psytrance party) and yet it felt like watching a home movie. I recognised these people. I've smiled that smile, danced that dance. It totally nails it when it comes to what happens to you, if you're a certain kind of person, when you experience your first doof. There is no going back to the club scene because nothing will ever compare to dancing in the open air in the bush, pristine setting, pristine sound, awesome freaks.

For me, in hindsight, the club scene was a stepping stone. I wanted to be on the dancefloor and be lost to the music. I had friends who went to clubs to sit somewhere and talk, and occasionally that was good, but overall I wanted music that reached in and took hold of me. I wanted to be out there, surrounded but alone. Some nights worked, when the trance was dark and hard, or the house was dirty and tribal, but it was hit and miss. When it was hit, I didn't want to stop. Some people go to clubs for the sex or the drugs, others really are there for the music.

As I'm typing I'm listening to the audio CD. It's best described as organic, tribal trance. Again, it taps into something primal, drawing on a variety of traditional ethnic sounds - didgeridoo follows Middle Eastern vocals or American Indian chanting, for example - in a way that makes you want to get the fuck out of the city and be in a field somewhere, face turned to the sun giving thanks for music and dance.

Doofers who watch Welcome To Wonderland are going to recognise it. They're going to see themselves and people they know, even if they have never met them. But I also want my non-doofing friends to watch it. They're never going to take that two or 10 hour drive, get lost, look for the ribbons tied to trees in the middle of nowhere. They're never going to experience that slightly comical feeling of relief when a random convoy of cars forms and everyone assumes the one in front knows the way. They're never going to experience that pure sound quality, feel those hugs, drink in those smiles as you stomp on the dusty dancefloor, surrounded but alone with the thumping beat and twisted melody. They're never going to have these friends who don't base a person's worth on their age or the job they do but on how much they let the music take hold of them. They're just never going to experience any of this, and this is why I want them to see this documentary.

Do ya get the impression that I want to be at a doof?

Meet Debz... or: The King & I.

I accidentally... oh the details are unclear, but I'm pretty sure they said king, but typically I was looking at the canapes or something, but The Dreaded One says they said king, so king it is.

Anyway, was going to write it and then chatted to a friend about it and so I've cut and pasted the conversation here. Once you get past the bits about decks and bogeys you'll get to the king bit. And it's a bit funny.


debz says: ah-hem

Grumpy says: hmmmm?

debz says: I'VE GOT A BEDROOOM WOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Grumpy says: woo hoo.

Grumpy says: !

Grumpy says: !!

debz says: and i got my technics on the weekend

debz says: WOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Grumpy says: coowool.

debz says: and and playing at a club this weeekend

debz says: oh and how you doing?

Grumpy says: coowooler still.

debz says: i have a bogey

Grumpy says: (that was in reference to you playing at a club, not at how am I)

debz says: ooh why not?

debz says: you could be cowlicker if you want

Grumpy says: because I am not coowooler than having a bedroom, having decks and playing in a club on the weekend

debz says: why not? what are you donig/having?

Grumpy says: well this was cool... last night went to theatre to review it. On the way out of the Opera House afterwards, I saw a free drinks thing set up and although they hadn't given me an invitation, I TOTALLY assumed I was invited.

debz says: hahaha excellent. and you got the free drinks?

Grumpy says: Ann said I dunno, you weren't given an actual invitation. I said so what, I'm always invited to these things, and I swanned on inside. "Look, there's food," I said to Ann. "Have food. And here - have some champagne too." I really settled in with all these dollied up theatre types.

debz says: and then and then and then

Grumpy says: Then there was a speech, which is a little unusual for a theatre opening night. It was the CEO of The Opera House who introduced the host of the soiree, who was...

Grumpy says: The King Of Norway.

debz says: haaaaaaaaaaahahhahahaaa you funny

Grumpy says: I went a bit sweaty and was less confident that I was invited than before.

debz says: and then and then

Grumpy says: Well that was it. I mean, the King of fucking Norway. And me drinking his booze and acting like I knew what the fuck was going on.

debz says: hahaha you're funny

debz says: hahaha nice - was it good food and drinks?

Grumpy says: It was good. And I'm pretty sure the Opera House people just forgot to give me my invitation... I think.

debz says: of course they did

debz says: you should write a letter of complaint. See what other free things you get

Grumpy says: Yes. Like a reindeer. Reindeers come from Norway don't they? I want a reindeer.

debz says: i want one too! arrange it please

Grumpy says: And an iceberg.

debz says: with no yellow snow

Grumpy says: "Dear King Harald of Norway, You probably don't remember me, but you owe me two reindeers and one iceberg, then I shall let the matter drop. Yours sincerely, Grumpy."

Grumpy says: "PS Thanks for the drinks and the sushi."

debz says: hahaha i like it

The Smell oF ear Pt II

So I got an invite to the Gala Launch of the Fringe Comedy Festival I wrote about two posts down. Met the orgniser who was the MC for the night. Seems like a good person as I thought. Chatted. Dreaded One and I took seats, she choosing seats that I felt were a little too exposed and close to the stage. The MC started her opener, thanking various people involved in proceedings so far, paused for a breath... then said something like, “And we also have in the audience one Quick who wrote a story about the festival which was pretty shit...” Everyone laughed, but I was thinking hang on hang on... there was a little banter back and forth in which I tried to defend myself. More laughter, all good. Kind of.

First comedian came up and took his cue from the MC and focused the first bit of his act on me. We all laughed because isn’t it funny to see someone squirm under the white hot glare of unwanted spotlight.

MC did a comic act that wasn’t quite working and muttered at one point, indicating to me, “Shit it’s intimidating having you in the front row.” Yessss! Me, Man In Black from the media was intimidating her. Next comic left me alone. Guy after him was dragged up on stage and also left me alone (although he had had a go at me - in a good natured way - from the audience) and told a really lame joke in hilarious style. Think he’s an amateur who really has got something. Very funny.

There was an intermission and as I passed the MC she laughed that she was sorry to have brought me into it. I said, “No worries. I am writing a review for the next issue. You knew that yes?”

During intermission MC came over and asked, “Are you really reviewing this? Because it’s shit.” I said no, smirked, let her sweat.

After intermission they got the audience to applaud and say YAY! As the MC took the stage. As she passed, I gave her a lone booh! On stage she said “Ooh – Drum Man says booh while everyone is saying yay.” More laughs.

Next comedian also singled me out a few times, at one point coming down off stage to croon some silly love song at me. Closing comedian also referred to me a couple of times, seeming a little pleased at one point and declaring that, “Hey – I got a smile out of Drum Man.” She also said that she really liked my story.

At the end we all mingled briefly. There was more laughter because it had all been pretty funny, and a couple of flat parts aside, there was some serious talent at work during the night. Someone else asked if I was reviewing, I said I wasn’t intending to but I might now, and I got the impression that maybe they were a little concerned.

They needn’t be. I like these people and my only regret with it is that a couple of my comebacks could have been funnier. I just wasn’t expecting any of it to happen. It was a good night and I wish the festival well. Humble beginnings, but from little things big things grow.

Anyone reading this who lives in Sydney should check The Sydney Fringe Comedy, Art & Film Festival. There’s going to be some quality acts to be enjoyed.

Now I have to write my Grumpy column through the haze of a stress headache after having a shouty altercation with some shoplifters in my shop. These arseholes think they have every right to help themselves to our store and don’t get that if I want them out, they have to leave. They put up such an aggressive argument, telling me to fuck off and glaring at me and spitting on the ground as they left. Excuse me for trying to run an honest business. I'm expecting more trouble. Police have been called. I hate this kind of shit.

So I gotta come up with some funny. Deadline first thing tomorrow. Bleh.

Caught Out

Sometimes when you're out dancing, you might check out a few fellow dancers. Sometimes you get quite fixated on them, might even smile, might even talk to them at some point. You might even flirt a little even though you're in a relationship because the fun of innocent flirting never quite goes away.

Maybe it's the way they move their hips, or the way they smile as they dance, eyes closed, lost to the music. They might become a friend, they might become someone you smile at and say hello to whenever you see them. Maybe you'll never see them again.

But sometimes you might just get caught out checking out your own partner.

The Smell oF ear

I had to interview someone who was organising a new comedy festival. She wasn't answering her phone. After two days and with deadline rapidly approaching she finally called back early in the morning. I said I'd call back in 30 minutes. Needed to wake up. When I did call back she said she'd rather answer the email questions I had sent instead. That was fine with me too. In the end she answered four of the email questions and told me to call her if I wanted to ask any more questions.

I was a little grumpy because the story was more use to her than me; did she want the exposure or not? Started to write a snippy email... then sat and thought for a bit and decided to take a different approach. The result is below.


WORD ON THE STREET WAS THAT THERE WAS A NEW COMEDY FESTIVAL IN TOWN. THE SYDNEY FRINGE COMEDY, ART AND FILM FESTIVAL WASN’T RINGING ANY BELLS, PROBABLY BECAUSE IT HAD A CLEAN HISTORY. SO CLEAN IT DIDN’T EXIST. EITHER THAT OR IT WAS JUST GOOD AT COVERING ITS TRACKS. LEE BEMROSE WONDERED WHAT IT WAS TRYING TO HIDE.


SYDNEY’S SECRET COMEDY FESTIVAL

I checked out the festival website. Like the festival itself, it wasn’t giving much away, which made me even more suspicious. Sure, there was an extensive program of events including stand up acts at venues like The Sandringham, The Bar Me Jazz Cellar, Newtown Theatre, The Clarence Hotel, The Eastern Hotel and more... this festival sure was going to get around. And okay, there was also an extensive list of dates and venues for live acts and film screenings, and deadline details for entries to a short film festival, the lowdown on a stand up comedy course run by one of the country’s most respected comedians.

So basically the website told me everything I wanted to know about the festival. But it wasn’t enough. Through the blood-red blur of a hangover, I decided to try my only lead. Adrian Moxham’s name kept coming up, and I had a sneaking suspicion this guy was a key player, an oily cog that kept this whole undercover comedy machine purring like a finely tuned Blue Persian.

I would have dialed the guy’s number but there wasn’t a dial on my phone. So I punched his number in instead... except I had eventually learned my lesson about punching phone numbers into phones, so when it comes down to it what I did was poke his number into my phone with my finger, which does lack a certain machismo.

Adrian’s phone rang. Except it wasn’t much of a ring, it was more of a trill, which also lacks machismo. In the end I got through to voice mail, and the voice that told me Adrian was busy definitely lacked machismo: Adrian Moxham, it turned out, was a babe. A dame. A skirt. I should have picked up on this when I read that her stage name was Suze Moxham.

I suaved a message down the line... except there was no line, just a kind of... great big gap. I hung up... that is I poked the button with my finger, and I waited. I waited for two whole days through the vermilion terrorism of a hangover. I left another message. I sent my interrogation via email. Nothing.

Eventually Foxy Moxy called to say she’d do a phoner. It was early. I was unprepared. I needed 30 minutes to down some coffee to quell the foaming white tsunami of my hangover. When I called back, she was evasive and said she’d answer the email questions instead of doing the phoner. I started to feel like a mouse being toyed with like that finely tuned Blue Russian I was talking about. Something didn’t feel right.

I hit the streets with a Sketch O Graph drawing of what I thought someone called Foxy Moxy would look like. Imagine my surprise when the very person I approached was none other than Foxy herself.

“Maam - have you seen this person?”
“Oh my God that looks just like me. Who are you?”
“I’m Lee Bem – “

Foxy made a break for it. I didn’t know what she was trying to hide, but I wasn’t in the mood for letting her get away now that I was so close, especially not through the canary-yellow horror of a hangover. Foxy ran. I chased. I crash tackled her to the ground. I told her I had questions. I demanded answers. I said something about that Blue Persian, which in hindsight didn’t really make much sense and probably undermined my credibility.

“For a start,” I shrieked... growled into her terrified face, “we already have two comedy festivals. Why do we need another one?”
“Cracker and Big Laugh are wonderful festivals,” Foxy fessed. “I had a show in the Cracker Festival this year. The main difference that Cracker and Big Laugh have more of an international mainstream focus and is exclusive with no open submissions. Next year, we’re going to have open submissions!”

Foxy cracked, spilled the beans, and in the end I decided I was going to keep a close eye on this new kid on the block.

WHAT: The Sydney Fringe Comedy, Art & Film Festival
WHEN & WHERE: 23 October – 6 November at various venues throughout Sydney. Check www.sydneyfringe.com for more info

Ends.

I didn't know how the mag or the festival organiser were going to take it. Made poohs in my pants all day because it was a very silly piece and I hadn't done a back up serious story. I thought it was pretty funny at the time of writing, but just wasn't sure anymore. I sent to the story to the organiser/comedian and hoped it was going to be taken in the right spirit.

Phone rang and it was the organiser. She giggled a little unsurely, corrected me on one detail, then asked if I was having a go at her. No no no, I said, then relieved, she cacked herself laughing. Really let go and had a good laugh. Apparently there were a couple of references in there that made her think I was friends with someone who knew her and they were having a pop at her through me. Had a really cool conversation, both laughed lots, she mentioned somethinig about me maybe writing for the festival website, maybe interviewing some international comedians.

Relieved? Oh yeah. Magazine liked it too. Ran as is.

A Light Massage Before The Show

We're standing on the steps outside the theatre at The Old Fitzroy. There's a flight of stairs down to the theatre and a little Asian kitchen just to the side that does a pretty good laksa. They've rung the bell for us to go in but the door hasn't been opened yet, so we all stand there in the cramped corridor waiting. The Dreaded One leans back against the wall and starts massaging her shouler blades against it, really grinds into it, half smile of pleasure on her face. She gets tight muscles from catering and she does this all the time. We look absently inside the busy kitchen then, and all the cooks suddenly start looking around in bewilderment because the lights are flashing and a dimmer one is going dark and bright and dark again. It looks pretty funny. No one knows what the hell is going on until the head cook comes out and says to The Dreaded One, "Can you please don't do that." She's been massaging her shoulder blades against the light switch panel.

Still Rolling

The intention last night was to walk to Darlinghurst (weirdly, Darlinghurst is half way to Potts Point, and Darlinghurst Theatre is in Potts Point... go figure) and catch a cab from there, but do you think there was a single friggin' cab going my way. How could there not be a single cab heading to Kings Cross? I ended up walking most of the way and almost having to break into a run to make it on time. Managed to flag a cab when I was almost there. Had to explain I was running late and that I would have just walked the $3.50 fare if I had the time. Didn't really know why I felt the need to explain this to the cab driver. He didn't care. I know this because he said "I don't care."

Anyway, everyone else was already going inside, I collected my ticket, ordered a glass of wine, went inside and found a good single seat. I didn't really feel like Mr Mysterious as much as Lonely Guy. I sipped my wine, put it on the floor, went to take another sip and then suddenly wondered if I hadn't fucked up. Can you take your drink inside here? Couldn't remember. Surely they would have said something at the door. Maybe they were too polite. Maybe they could see that I was flustered and in a hurry. I looked around at the well-lit audience (play was set in a boxing stadium, bright lights). No one seemed to be drinking. No one seemed to have brought wine in with them. Fuck. Was I going to look uncouth? Was I going to look like an alcoholic? Why did I care so much what all these strangers thought about me? Come to think of it, why did I even think they would think anything of me. Because some people care about such things. Maybe they knew you couldn't take your drinks in and they did the right thing. Was I seriously going to sit here and not drink my wine until intermission?

In the end I decided what the fuck. I drank my wine whenever the hell I felt like it, and if anyone was going to say anything I was just going to shrug and say, "Deal with it. It's just the way I roll."

Here's the review for anyone who's interested. And now I have to dash off to more theatre, this time at the newly refurbished Belvoir Street Theatre. At least The Dreaded One has the night off and we can go together. Meeting her there. Thinking about pretending we're strangers meeting for the first time... our eyes meet from across the room, a loaded smile, I move through the crowd oozing mystery, walking sexily, introduce myself smoothly. There is a spark of passion as she

Fuck. Running late.



BLUE EYES AND HEELS

As the theatre fills, our ears are caressed gently with the ethereal strains of Ave Maria before the serenity is shattered by a camp and crass video montage of World Championship Wrestling. Funny stuff – the glammest of glam rockers have got nothing on these prancing roid boys.

The very amusing first act of Toby Whithouse’s play sees the oily TV exec Duncan casting for his new project, the re-introduction of telly wrestling. Victor – The Count Of Monte Christo in his heyday – enters and dismays with his age. At 55 years old he is well past his use-by date and tragically stuck re-living his glory days. Personal assistant Emma appears to feel for the hapless Victor, and to us too there is a hint of something pathetic about him. When it is revealed that Victor is a good mate of the head of the production company, Duncan’s indifference towards the old has-been turns to false bonhomie, giving the old wrestler a glimmer of hope of another chance.

It’s all quite funny, and quite fun, but you sense that it’s all leading towards something a bit meatier, and into the second act we are given a big serving of Stuff To Think About – still with the humour (no matter how bitter) – no more than a dislocated arm’s length away.

On one level there is basic human decency to consider. Victor is stuck in the past and is pretty annoying, but at the same time he’s just an honest bloke trying to make his way and do the right thing. That he is willing to change his wrestling persona to The Fiddler (you won’t believe you can laugh so much at a pedophile joke, but laugh you will, I promise) speaks volumes about his vulnerability and the TV exec’s oblivion to it.

But on another level – and this is where I saw several audience members sit forward attentively – there is the question of the nature of television and who, exactly, is dictating what we are fed. Wrestling is the topic in what turns into a heated debate, but it’s also about b-grade drama, reality shows, current affairs shows and those idiotic late night quiz things. Why does it all exist? Who is to blame?

There are many memorable lines in this well-cast play. Switch off the television. Go see some real entertainment.

Until 28 October, Darlinghurst Theatre, Potts Point

Because That's How I Roll

I really need a play mate. The Dreaded One is working late again and I've been asked to review another play tonight. So I'm going alone. Again. *sigh*

I don't mind actually. When in the right mood, I kinda like it. You get to be mysterious, and as I may have mentioned, being mysterious is one of my favourite hobbies.

And I'm kind of hoping someone sees that I'm alone and asks why I go to the theatre alone, because I have the coolest answer to that. I just read this person explain that she does something a certain way "because that's how I roll."

How cool is that? Seriously. It comes with a built in aloof look, a James Dean shrug, the whole package. I can't wait to be asked why I do stuff the way I do it. I may even take up smoking so I can say my new favourite line through a haze of smoke.

Thank you Piehole.

Theatre Review

My latest theatre review for Drum. Good play.

OSAMA THE HERO

Written by the UK’s Dennis Kelly, Osama The Hero starts with the story of Gary, a student who views the world at a slightly different tangent than the rest of society. When asked to do a school assignment on someone he considers a true hero, he finds conventional leaders don’t quite fit the definition of ‘hero’. Leaders of the western world are corpulent suits who lunch and deliver speeches, he reasons, whereas the leader of Al Quaida is a hands-on fighter, an inspiration to millions and therefore a true hero.

The play is set in a housing estate in England. Bins keep exploding and garages burn. A brother and sister argue, the unemployed and slightly unhinged brother obsessively watches the goings on of the rest of the estate. He is appalled that the neighbor with the last undamaged garage has left his wife to have a fling with a schoolgirl. He decides that someone’s going to pay for all that is wrong, and a hostage is taken. There is brutality and violence as facades crack and true nature emerges.

The story then fragments and each of the characters – blood dripping unnoticed from their hands - tells a domestic story that appears to have happened in their past but sometime after the hostage incident (I could have this wrong – the characters may also be random characters with no connection to what has taken place previously), and these monologues are utterly captivating. There is music in the writing, a rhythm that indicates that the script alone would be well worth reading: monologues overlap, lines are looped, the randomness of life is laid bare.

I can still hear the escalating staccato riff that gave the hostage scene such sharp tension, the highlight in a quite excellent sound design. The stage setting was equally sparse and effective, and performances were universally mesmerizing - dramatic, heartfelt with deft flecks of dark humour.

The Rabble is a new national director’s collaboration, and they should feel proud of this disturbing, thought-provoking and thoroughly enjoyable production.

Until 28 October at The Old Fitzroy Theatre, Cnr Cathedral & Dowling Streets Woolloomooloo.

Death

I think blogging might be killing my writing.

I was just driving through the city after dropping The Dreaded... oh fuck it. This blog's hardly anonymous anymore. I dropped Ann off at The Opera House and was driving back through the city thinking about how I've had this thing lately about appreciating every day. Every moment of every day. I want good stuff. Laughter, general happiness. Money would be fine, but fuck it, real happiness, you make that for free. Every moment really is precious because it really could be your last.

Lilly Tomlin was interviewed recently by Andrew Denton. She is a total babe in every sense of the word. Andrew asked her something along the lines of what she's learned as she's grown older, and she said something like, "You realise that life is more finite than it was."

Our lives have always been finite. There is a time and a place. We will cease to exist. But Lilly was right - I think as you get older and have the odd close call, you start to feel like you're living on borrowed time. You just get more intolerant of the shit that small minds throw at you. You get more selective with the friends you want around you. You try to make sure they're good people, and you try to return some goodness to them. You lose your way of course and you do clumsy things and make mistakes, but I think as you get older you focus a little more on not doing these things.

That line by Chuck Palahniuk - "This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time." That's it in a nutshell. It hits you occasionally when you're young, but you brush it aside because there's life to be lived. Why dwell on the fact that we're going to cease to be? It's how it has to be, but the closer the time comes, the more you realise there's real stuff you have to squeeze out of every day, out of every precious moment.

This is what I was thinking about after dropping Ann off at work. Sunny day in a shiny city. People out in their summer gear. There's a fountain I drive past in Hyde Park, Theseus slaying the Minotaur, turtles around the edge spouting water. I saw a derelict almost drown there once, one of those moments everyone who was there has probably forgotten about, but it stayed with me and I used it in a story. It was a moment that mean't something to me. Maybe it was one of those moments when the truth of life stared me straight in the eye. I stared back and remembered it, dressed it up and put it in a story. That's what I used to do. I'd see something, have a thought, make a story.

And now I'm sitting here and simply putting these unadorned thoughts down instead of making a story out of them.

This is why I think blogging is killing my writing.

The Saga Continues...

This toilet business has been a nightmare (see post below if this is your first time here). I can't believe I was once a tradesman who could do anything from stonemasonry to window repairs and minor electrical stuff and now I can't even put a goddamn toilet in. I had to take the damn thing apart AGAIN today because a seal was not working. I sussed out what the problem was, decided upon a solution and went back to the hardware store AGAIN. (I found a rather fetching utility belt that I want a lot).

Anyway, I had to saw a bit of pipe to fit better and I broke the blade of my brand new hacksaw. Incredible. Still, I was in no mood for defeat and used the stub of the saw to make the required cuts, went to work again and FINALLY things are looking good.

Now I have to go to a writer's meeting to meet the publisher of a mag I freelance for. Apparently there are changes afoot, new opportunities with the publishing company expanding, new rates to discuss, as well as the question of whether they will agree to give me a regular humorous column. I think they should. They probably won't. I should be looking forward to it, but I know I'm just going to spend all night worrying that The Toilet From Hell is going to collapse in my absence.

Leaning Tower Of Piss

This is what happens when you let me loose on a home improvement project. I took that old flusher out and put this one in, but there's something not quite satisfying about it.

Anyway, all good. It is leany, but it works.

The Dreaded One has just driven off to the remnants of a doof, I'll try to correct The Leaning Tower Of Toilet tomorow.

The spare bits on the toilet seat? Fucked if I know where they're supposed to go.