Lords Of The Land

Out at the back of the shop there is a garage and a storage area. For some time now we have been sub-letting the garage to the white goods shop next door. Last week one of the strata management people made a rare appearance and asked why the shop next door was putting stuff in the garage. He seemed confused by the arrangement. Then this afternoon I got a call from the owner of the premises and it seems that neither the garage or the storage area have anything to do with the premises we are renting. Apparently both are comon areas for the tenants of the complex our premises are a small part of.

Effectively, we moved in, slapped a padlock on the storage area and claimed it as our own and rented out a garage that is not ours. Nice.

The white goods people are refusing to accept that the garage is not part of our tenancy. I think he had a go at the strata man too for interfering in stuff that has nothing to do with him, when in fact it has rather a lot to do with the strata man and not very much to do with white goods man. I wish he would pull his white goods out and his head in.

I bet we now have to pay all the money back to the strata people. That is gonna hurt a lot.

And it's pretty embarrassing. I vaguely recall when our business partner suggested renting the garage out there was some discussion about whether the garage was included in our rent or not. Should have checked up. Woopsie.

My Office

Busy busy busy. No time to blog. But this big pointy building is my office. When I am not being a food dude, I am often there to review theatre. I find this very amusing. I never could have imagined that this would happen. Life can take such unexpected turns. I mean, I used to stare at that building when I was a kid sitting in the back seat of a car as we drove across the bridge from the southern to the northern suburbs to visit distant family, and I probably went there for a school excursion, and yeah I even went there a few times to see theatre in the days when I had to pay for tickets, but never could it have occured to me that one day I would be working there, both in hospitality and as a theatre reviewer.

Each day thousands of tourists come here, and it's quite humbling to think that they all come to have their photos taken simply because I work there.

"This is it," I imagine them whispering in awed tones. "This is the place Quick works at. Please take a photo of me standing in front of it."

The Trestle At Pope Lick Creek

Lazy post. This is my Drum Media review of a thoroughly enjoyable play I saw last week. The Dreaded One couldn't make it, I went solo even though I wasn't in the mood, and I was so glad I went. If you're a Sydney-sider into good theatre, definitely check it out.



THE TRESTLE AT POPE LICK CREEK

Odd title, but then American playwright Naomi Wallace has a bit of a thing for odd titles. She also has a bit of a thing for quality writing, with The Trestle populated by some really well drawn characters. There’s a lot going on in this play.

This immediately engaging story follows the relationship between Dalton Chance (Nathaniel Scotcher) and local bad girl Pace Creagan (Sarah Goodchild). They fall into an awkward kind of love, initially not seeing it as love. It’s Pace’s intention for the pair of them to sprint across a railway bridge (the trestle of the title) and outrun a steam train. It’s a dangerous challenge, but Pace is as obsessed with it as Dalton is afraid of it. Meanwhile Dalton’s parents Dray (Errol Henderson) and Gin (Dianna McLean) have to cope with their decaying relationship, his unemployment and growing bitterness over a life wasted. Chas Weaver (Tony Curtis) plays one of the few employed men left in this economically crippled town.

Set during the depression in the southern states of America, the story unfolds in a non-linear way with present giving way to past, all of the characters struggling with the present events and being haunted by memories. Dreams of a bright future are dangerous and fanciful, almost as dangerous as falling in love or trying to outrun a speeding steam train.

Scotcher and Goodchild were superb as the teens trying to make sense of their world. Scotcher was gangly and awkward, Goodchild’s Pace was brazen and flirtatious. The parts called on them go big and bold one minute, then switch to quiet frailty the next, and it was really quite wonderful to watch. This can be said of all the performances, with Dianna McLean perfect as the stoic mother and wife, Errol Henderson a more tragic figure than Willy Loman and Tony Curtis haunted by his past brutality, but also turning on some weirdly humorous moments.

The Trestle At Pope Lick Creek is a rich play. It’s rich with sadness and longing, with love and regret and strange little moments of beauty. Like several productions throughout Alchemy’s first year, this is an excellent one I could easily see again.

Until 9 December, The Lock Up, Riley Street Surry Hills


Managed to see a Neil Simon play (Laughter On The 23rd Floor) at the New Theatre in Newtown last night too. Bloody fun stuff. I think I have to start another blog that is only about theatre stuff. I've been busting my arse lately (for fuck sake, I have a part time job that took up 50 hours this week and is nudging 60 next week) but I really need a theatre hit because I just love the whole live theatre thing.

As for doofing... I don't even know what day it is right now, but I think including days working in the shop and writng days, I am looking at a month of seven days a week. This must stop. I need to be in the bush and go mental.

I have to say though, I feel happier than I have in a long time. Just this smooth sailing lightness of mood that I am not used to. Strange.

Super Friends

No time to scratch myself. In the middle of a 70 plus working week, doing 14 days straight and probably heading straight into more of the same. Still, it's all so varied and hours are all over the place that a lot of it doesn't feel like work. I mean, telephone interviews and writing stories? I love it. The food bit is chewing up (sorry) most of the hours though (60 hours... what the fuck?), and that does feel a little like work. Bloody hard work. But I'm feeling more energised, not less, and I'm trying to fit a theatre night in for a review as well. This is not at all like the impression I have of me. I'm supposed to be a lazy dreamer.

Just banged this column out for the good people at Tsunami mag. It's all I have time to blog right now.

Grumpy

Hitherto unknown levels of intoxication were rapidly setting in. We’d been talking for hours, but I doubt that any of us could remember the beginning of the conversation we were currently throwing ourselves into. Then someone had the brilliant idea of starting a whole new conversation. Or maybe it was just the beginning of the same one we’d been having for the last three hours. Who Knows? It all sounded new anyway, and that was good enough. “Hey,” they said as though The Truth Of How Shit Works had just been revealed to them and they were about to pass this amazing knowledge on to the rest of us. “If you were, like, a superhero, who would you be?” Oh man, this was too good. This was going to reveal something about each of our personalities the others hadn’t known. Like if I said Wonderwoman (because of the invisible plane)... no wait on – I’d always wanted to be Thor. Well not always. Not all the time. It’s not like when I suspected the cab driver of taking the long way to home I sat there thinking, “Now what would Thor do in a situation like this?” Wonderwoman... Thor... maybe I would wait and see what the others were going to say first. The original speaker went on, “Because if I was a superhero, I’d be Infrastructure Woman.” Bamboozled silence from the others, maniacal laughter from me, someone who had once invented a superhero called Dog Pooh Avoidance Man, inspired by my apparent supernatural ability to never step in dog pooh. (Someone actually left that meeting and spent weeks drawing cartoons of Dog Pooh Avoidance Man). When I stopped laughing I said I wanted to be Macroeconomics Man. “That’s so stupid,” someone else said. “What would Macroeconomics Man’s superpowers be?” I told them he would bore the bad guys to death by explaining macroeconomics to them. Someone asked me what macroeconomics was. “Erm... you know how you have microeconomics? Well, macroeconomics is the same, but a LOT bigger.” They nodded like it made perfect sense. Infrastructure Woman pointed at my girlfriend, whose name is Ann, and said, “And you! You can be Super Annuation!” I laughed so hard I thought my ears were going to fall off. Someone wanted to know if there were any economics in between the micro and macro ones, Ann really wasn’t happy about being Super Annuation, and me? Well I was just happy to be surrounded by good friends and intelligent conversation.

The Ring

Three school girls walk into the shop, maybe 10 years old, probably younger. They are serious. They are here to do business. They home in on the kandy section. They check a few prices out. The one doing the buying, she has $2 to spend.

"Look - buy him this one," one of the friends says, picking up a bracelet.

"It's a bit girly. He's a boy's boy."

"Yeah. Anyway, it's $4."

"What about these ones? They're nice. 'Scuse me. How much are these ones?"

"They're $10," I reply apologetically. Their joint disappointment just about kills me because they are taking this so seriously.

"I really want to get him something he can wear."

"What about this," says one of the friends, picking up a jelly smiley ring. "This is cool." They examine the soft plastic ring without discovering its hidden secret.

"These are very cool," I tell them, picking up another one. "They flash." I squeeze the ring and the smiley ring starts flashing like crazy.

"Whoa!" all three of them marvel. "That is so cool!"

Then the big question. "How much is it?"

"$2.50," I tell her.

"Oh. I only have $2."

I consider giving it to her for $2, but one of the friends speaks up.

"I have 50 cents you can borrow," she says, fishing the coin from her pocket. There are smiles all around.

"He' going to think I'm craaazy giving him a flashing smiley ring."

"I want a flashing smiley ring."

"Me too."

They thank me and leave the store, earnestly discussing the terms and conditions of the loan.

I'm not into kids at all, but seriously, how can you not carry around an inner smile after seeing that? Melted my heart, it did.

Quiet Music For Quiet People

I've buggered this up by posting Inga Liljestrom's image with the review of the rude food burlesque show this image goes with. I just wanted to post this because although I'd seen it a couple of times, it only dawned on me when it came out in the mag with my review that the kitchen it was shot in is none other than the one I work in. I was looking at it thinking hey, she's in one of those jacuzzi-sized stock pot things we have... it's just like it. And that fridge looks just like the three door we have. And... wait a minute...

So yeah. Interview with Inga revealed that she works in a button shop across the road from my shop, and this publicity shot was taken where I work. Both pieces appearing in the same issue of Drum Media. Kwinky dinky.

Here is the interview with the delightful Inga Liljestrom...

QUIET MUSIC FOR QUIET PEOPLE IS THE MESMERISING NEW RELEASE BY SYDNEY SONGSTRESS INGA LILJESTROM, SO QUICK CAUGHT UP WITH HER TO CHAT ABOUT THE MAGIC OF IMPROVISATION, AND THE GORGEOUSNESS OF BUTTONS.

SWEET MELANCHOLY

Inga Liljestrom. There is even music in the name. It’s the music of solitude and heart ache, of bittersweet melancholy. And it’s because of this that I worry when I phone at the agreed time that I will be disturbing her, interrupting some distant reverie as she gazes over a stark landscape and writes her poetry. And indeed she does ask me to wait one second after answering her phone because she is “at work.” I feel like a clumsy intruder already; have I just ruined the flow of the creation of her next release?

However, it turns out that this remarkably talented song writer, performer and producer is at work like a regular person. Job type work. The person who sang me to sleep the night before with her unique style of dream-like, haunting sorrow spends her Saturdays in a shop.

“I do music basically five days a week,” she tells me after relocating to the rear of the store. “But I’m working on Saturdays in a button store. It’s gorgeous in here. It’s like stepping into Amelie. It’s a lovely experience. It feels like you’re in Europe or something.”

One clumsy intruder is instantly enchanted.

Add to the enchantment a healthy dose of fascination too, because unlike her previous release Elk, which was two years in the making, Liljestrom’s latest release is completely improvised and was recorded over two short nights. Having listened to the album several times, I find it hard to get my head around this. How on Earth do you gather a group of musicians together and improvise an entire album into such (quietly) stunning existence?

“For this project I just rang up a few friends and a cellist I’d never met before. When we arrived in the studio I described a sort of scene to them that I wanted to create. A certain sort of atmosphere. I wanted really sparse music as opposed to what I was creating in Elk, which was much more lush. So I described a desert scene to them, a desert-scape at night with stars and romantic pining. So it was a matter of really trying to tap into that visual. We didn’t really discuss keys or anything like that. It was very much a matter of someone would start and people would join in, and I would flick through my diaries and what have you to and find some words that I thought would be appropriate for the music.”

Ah. Easy.

The result sounds very much like there were a lot of people on the same wavelength in the Surry Hills studio over those two nights. Liljestrom describes the vibe during the recording sessions and being “magical”, adding that the lights were turned out to heighten the magic and add to the intimacy of the sound. And although the vision was Liljestrom’s, the interpretation was very much a collaborative one with all musicians feeling a sense of trepidation and really having to pay attention to what the others were doing. Liljestrom says that it all came together so well that it felt like there was something bigger than the musicians that was creating the music.

The title of the album is a fine and fitting one, but there is so much emotion in the music that it is much more than simply ‘quiet’ music. I suggest a couple of alternative titles, such as Sad Music For Sad People; Lonely Music For Lonely People; Damaged Music For Damaged People. The singer laughs good naturedly and says that no, these titles hadn’t been considered. “The name came to me quite a while ago and I wasn’t sure what I was going to use it for. It just seemed perfect for this premise. I even told the others that this is called Quiet Music For Quiet People, so it instantly put them into that frame of mind. It’s not necessarily sad, it’s not necessarily damaged. It’s just... quiet.”

So what to expect at the album’s launch on the 19th? Hooked on the edginess of improv, Liljestrom herself isn’t quite sure what to expect. She does, however, see it as being more than just a music gig. “We did another show at a warehouse a few weeks ago and it was packed out. Everyone just kind of laid on the floor, all carried away by the experience. I think it was lovely for them to experience something that was created then and there. I’m hoping it’s going to be the same at the @Newtown.”

The night will not be a rigidly faithful reproduction of the album, but further exploration of unchartered waters, ensuring each future performance is unique. Hmm... Unique Music For Unique People? Certainly it is unique music by a unique artist.

WHO Inga Liljestrom
WHAT The launch of Quiet Music For Quiet People (Vitamin Records)
WHEN & WHERE Sunday 19 November at the @Newtown

Feasting On Flesh, And The Lovely Inga Liljestrom

Here is my Drum Media review of Feasting on Flesh.

But first - my interview with Inga Liljestrom? Flawed, but perfect (flawed thanks to me and my garbled questions). By weird coincidence it turns out she spends her Saturdays working in a shop right across the road from mine. She's a full time, very successful musician but has this part time job in a button shop because it has a gorgeous and magical atmosphere, "like stepping into Amelie". She was so lovely to talk to, the story has turned out really well, and I arrived back home to a message on my machine from her thanking me for talking to her (seriously, pleasure was all mine) and inviting me along to her show next week. Some people are just good, good people. Her new album, Quiet Music For Quiet People, is really quite an experience. I have a stack of CDs that I play only when writing, and Quiet Music is definitely in there. I'll post the story after it's come out in Drum. I'm really very happy with it and totally looking forward to the show and maybe meeting Inga (pictured).

If you're a fan of Gotye and/or burlesque, see Feasting On Flesh too. This review is frustratingly short, but hopefully it captures the essence of the show.



FEASTING ON FLESH

Call me shallow, but the title caught my eye immediately. Then the poster with its manic huddle of scantily clad burlesque performers. Scanning to the writing credits, however, I couldn’t believe it – Stephen Sewell, Eddie Perfect and DH Lawrence, among others. What was going on here? But it got even better at seeing “Gotye live.” Even if I wasn’t a freeloading theatre hack, I was not going to miss this one.

Having discovered the brooding genius of Gotye’s Boardface when it was released a couple of years ago, I’d never really considered what he would be like live, simply accepting that he was a multi-talented whizz in the recording studio, but I have to say that his performance alone was worth the ticket price (if I wasn’t a freeloading theatre hack, this is where my money would go). Boardface has been one of my favourite albums of the last couple of years, and Wally De Backer (AKA Gotye) conjured its noirish moodiness along with his new material with an easy passion that raised goosebumps at times. Drums, piano, little tiny string thing or percussive pots and pans, he was brilliant. He also did a couple of stirring upbeat numbers. His comical interlude in which – in character as a Nordic Doctor - he talked about the flavour of semen was, like so much of the show, bizarre, unexpected and bloody funny.

As for the burlesque performances by Billie Brown, Candy Bowers, Gypsy Wood, Mark Winmill and Tom Flanagan... I really wasn’t sure a food themed burlesque show was the best accompaniment to Gotye’s music, but somehow they made it work. There really was a feast of flesh. I think mine is the only real-life willy I’ve seen as an adult and as a result I’ve never fully appreciated what a silly little thing it is... willies generally, I mean. The naked elegance of Gypsy Wood, on the other hand... yum. Squished tomatoes never looked so good.

Oh, right, being shallow again. As well as a fair amount of flesh, there were silly songs about food, funny acrobatics involving food, sensual dancing, a hammy knife throwing routine and a dazzling aerial trapeze dance and many more unexpected delights.

And there was Gotye live.

At The Studio, Sydney Opera House until 18 November.

Blue Steel

I am now the proud owner of a security pass giving me access to all areas backstage at The Sydney Opera House. I have been "inducted", which means I sat there pretending to listen to a well-meaning guy tell me procedures in case of emergency etc while I kept silently chanting "Shut up. Take my photo. I want my card. Shut up. Take my photo. I want my card."

Eventually he shut up and they got to the real business. Got my pass and fuck me the photo is hilarious. I swear I was just sitting there being normal, but what has come out is what can only be described as a "drop shouldered, three quarter turn, one eye brow raised, I'm a smamrmy fucker, total Blue Steel."

But I'm part of this amazing chef team now. How things change. I am enjoying this job a lot.

Saw a great show last night featuring Gotye live that I will tell you about later. And tomorrow I have a phone interview I have to do through the fuzz of a hangover with the totally gorgeous and amazingly talented Inga Liljestrom. Google her if you don't know about her. Such levels of creativity kind of intimidate me, but hopelessly fascinate me too, and I am looking forward to talking to her.

The funny thing about the previous para is that I have just arrived home from work and I am not drunk. Not yet, apparently.

Me In A Nutshell

Haha. This image with the following text ran in Tsunami mag this month for their contributor profile box.

If you can be bothered, perhaps you'd like to answer the non-Tsunami related questions in the comments box. I think that would be nice.

Anyway, hello. This is me-in-a-nutshell.


TEAM TSUNAMI PROFILE QUESTIONS

Name: Grumpy

Age: Ageless. I am immortal. Seriously.

Star sign: The fish one.

Religious beliefs: Religion is silly, in a bad way.

Area of expertise at Tsunami: If a reader snorts beverages out through their nose whilst reading my Grumpy column, then my work here is done.

Day Job: Freelance writer. (Also part time extra, cook, shop-owner)

Dream Job: Freelance writer, but with a livable income.

Turn ons: British and Spanish accents. Ouch... and my girlfriend’s Australian accent.

All time favourite band/artist/album: Impossible to answer. Being immortal I have seen and heard a LOT of amazing shit in my time.

All time favourite movie: Withnail & I

All time favourite director: Bruce Robinson made Withnail & I. He is a legend.

All time favourite author: Varies, but Peter Carey, Raymond Carver, Carl Hiassen, Patrick White, Don Delillo and Douglas Adams are all up there.

Night haunts: Independent theatres as I’m often a theatre critic, but also the bush because I heart doof.

Hobbies: Writing short stories; neglecting my mountain bike; vowing to take up distance running again; drinking alfresco and observing the passing parade of fashion victims.

Pets: I had two cats. They died. It made me sad. I am currently petless.

How do you have your coffee? It varies according to my mood. If this says something about my personality, I don’t want to know about it.

Favourite food: I do this thing with slow-cooked lamb shanks, vegetables and mashed potato that has made people weep with its perfection...

Favourite quote: “I love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.” Douglas Adams.

What shits you? Small minded people with big mouths.

Thoughts on Tsunami Mag? A cool mag put together with love by cool people. It follows that all of Tsunami’s readers are cool too.

Lush

Speaking of outrageous intoxication... I went to see a play on the weekend. I went alone and I'm quite used to that. I sat down and someone took the vacant seat next to mine. She was a talker, and it took me a couple of minutes to realise she was utterly stewed.

"Are you here as part of the audience?" she asked, "or are you part of the performance?"

"I'm just here to see the play," I replied, thinking it was one of the sillier conversation starters I'd encountered. "Why did you ask that?"

"Oh my daughter's involved in a lot of these things and I know how it works."

"Ah." Okaaaay.

"I just like to take an interest in the audience. I'm involved with the HSC. Had a bugger of a time with my year elevens today. That's why I reek of wine. Oh poor you - you had to get the drunk talkative one..."

It was about here that I realised she was falling off her chair drunk; Quick by name, quick by nature. Fucking hell. Why me? The minutes oozed by as the theatre filled. Complete rubbish fell from her mouth and I realised that she didn't have a clue what the play was about. There's a review of it at the side of this page under My Online Reviews - Emergency Sex. I'd read the script and interviewed the playwright, so I knew it pretty well. She was on about the title and what a great one it was, and when I said the play was a bit of an expose on the UN and that it followed the story of three UN Peacekeepers, she looked disappointed. I think she fully believed she was going to see live sex acts on stage under the pretence of watching mainstream theatre.

When the play finaly commenced, so did her disaproving muttering. The play's first line was delivered by an actor generally known for his comedic performances, and her voice alone in a packed theatre of 200 or so rang out in half a choked laugh. It was not a funny line, yet she assumed it would be and laughed loudly, a second later after realising that no one else was laughing, catching herself. What a mess. And she is teaching high school students?

15 minutes of muttering, removing her glasses and putting them back on, fidgetting in her seat and she mercifully gave up. Said something to her friend on the other side, then bothered to excuse herself to me and explain with disgust, "I'm going back outside. This is just utter plagiarism."

The play is based on the best selling book of the same name (with the full support of the authors and Miramax who own the rights), and perhaps she had read the book but had not made the connection. She could have been that stupid. I think it's more likely that she just grabbed the word 'plagiarism' because it sounded like a suitably intellectual cover for the fact that she just badly needed to get back to the bar.

Tomorrow night I'm going alone to a burlesque show called Feast On Flesh. Hmm.

No Tomorrow

Holy crap I took myself to the land of intoxication on the weekend. Friday and Saturday were solo theatre nights, then on Saturday when The Dreaded one finished work we stayed in and got trashed. Couch, dooner and being trashed while the weather turns nasty is rather a nice way to spend a night. Sun came up, we kept talking nonsense. I grabbed a couple of hours of sleep, sobered up, wrote a review, then re-commenced Mission: Intoxication.

A friend called to say she was in town for a week, invited us to a party at Bondi. Went straight from a boozy lunch to the party. Was great to see her. She's crazy. Kind of girl who gets married to a maffia guy because she wants an Italian passport and he wants an Australian one. Seriously. She's got a million friends, all of them really friendly. One of them insists that she has met me. I've never seen her before. She insists a bit more, then can't recall where we met. Then she admits, okay, maybe we haven't met, maybe C has just talked about you a lot - you're that guy right? Writes the funny stuff for the magazine? Under the name of Grumpy? Yeah that's me, I'm that guy. I look over at C. She's talking to one of her millions of friends.

Other familiar faces. One guy, I don't think he liked me very much to begin with. I think he was pretty protective of C and wasn't sure what I was all about or why she and I were so close. He's DJing. Looks up and smiles a real smile, comes over and shakes hands later. I guess I've stood the test of time.

Talk, more talk. What did we talk about? Dance, laughter. Someone gets me to write in the birthday card. What did I write? I'm talking to this woman and she wants my phone number and I give her my card and I remember she's laughing a lot but I'm damned if I can remember what I was saying. I know I told her about doofs and she wants to come to one. I know she was cute and had a great laugh but I don't know her name. There are cowboy hats everywhere but C didn't tell me it was a cowboy party. There's even an Indian, full feather headress, buffed body, shirt off. He's the birthday boy. I've met him before but can't remember where. Wonder what I wrote in his card? The place is rammed and everyone is dancing like there's no tomorrow, even though it's Sunday night. More booze. Everyone is flirting. There is just so much laughter. You just can't cram any more fun under one roof. It's that feeling again: One life, no tomorrow, we are immortal.

I wake up on the couch. I don't remember how I got there. I know there was a voice, my voice telling me it was time to go, I've had too much. I wonder for the millionth time why I do it. I know I'm not immortal. I've checked that one out. And yet I do it.

Today I feel fine, and truth is I'm not sure I would have changed a thing. Even though I still wonder why I do it.

An Invitation

Just read this. I like his writing a lot. His story triggered a thought that probably has little to do with his post, which is why I decided to post it here instead of commenting on his blog.

I didn't keep in touch with any one from any of my schools. I don't really have a hell of a lot of friends. I'm not the kind of person whose phone is ringing all the time. The flat is rarely filled with people who've dropped in. Some people I've known for a while, they don't even know what I do... okay, given the previous post, that's not such a crime.

Thing is, every now and then one person from the latest round of people I find myself hanging around with doesn't fade like the others. Somehow they manage to stick around seemingly for the long haul. These people are pretty fucking cool, and what OE talks about, that crying with happiness thing, it happens sometimes, and it's a good feeling knowing you've got people in your life who affect you like that.

So, my point here is that although I accumulate these kind of friends at a slower rate than maybe other people do, I reckon by the time I die I'll have a solid collection of the best quality lifelong friends you can imagine.

So come to my funeral - you'll be in awesome company.

Crap Friends & My Weird Resume

Chatting to a friend late last night, she mentioned that she was feeling a bit down. She moved right along though and we almost went back to the usual nature of our friendship, which is one of silliness and chuckles. But I said whoa - hang on - why down? She kind of talked about it a bit, but reluctantly, and I was a little amazed and appalled to think that I have known this friend for about, I dunno, six years or something and neither of us have ever really talked about our down times. What is that all about? Have we both really just assumed that because we goof about all the time that that is our constant state of mind?

I should add here that she has been a long distance friend for four years so I guess it makes sense that we only get in touch when in a good mood, but really...

Anyway, I fixed things up by telling her that although I've never said anything grown up like it before, I hope she knows that I'm happy to "talk to you when you're happy as well as when you're crap."

Nice one. Didn't come out quite how I intended.

Barista trial I went for was a bit of a joke. When they asked me to fold napkins instead of letting me get behind the machine, I kinda knew it wasn't going to work out. Doesn't matter because I went back to the Opera House yesterday for what was possibly my last shift and the new second in command to the new chef (of the celeb kind) stopped me in the corridor and asked what my story was.

"My story," I said as though slightly bemused by it myself. "Well. First thing you have to know is that I'm not a qualified chef. I'm a freelance writer and editor who doesn't make enough from freelance writing and editing to make a living. I offered to help out here last New Year's because they were severely short staffed and I offered to be an extra pair of hands. Early in the year I quit my full time job as an editor and staff writer of a dance music mag to go freelance and they kept asking me back to work in the kitchen. I need a part time job so I kept coming back."

"A witer eh?" he replied after listening, really listening. "Written any award winning books?" he asked with a good natured smirk.

"No. But I have won an award for my short fiction. I've had a bit of fiction published, but now I'm mainly writing for magazines. Did a couple of features for Men's Health recently, have a humour column, I've written restaurant reviews, I've somehow become a theatre critic..."

"Restaurant reviews eh?"

I think the angle I was taking is that I have to be upfront, there's no way I'm going to impress them with my cooking skills but given their can-do attitude they might just be drawn to my other small achievements.

Did a long shift yesterday. Enjoyed it a lot. I like hard work in an environment free of unnecessary bullshit. Just got a message. They want me on board. This is so funny. I can now add to my increasingly strange resume that I once worked at The Sydney Opera House under Aria's Matt Moran. Brilliant.

Wicked

I've been into the idea of writing songs recently, and I did write something. It sounded okay in my head but I have no idea about the music that brings it to life. A blogfriend who is into music recently posted these lyrics, and fucking hell, does the marriage of songwriting and musical and vocal delivery get any better than this? No. No I don't think it does.

Cue Chris Isaak...

The world was on fire and no one could save me but you

It's strange what desire will make foolish people do

I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you

I never dreamed I'd love somebody like you

I don't want to fall in love

No I don't want to fall in love with you

What a wicked game to play

To make me feel this way

What a wicked thing to do

To let me dream of you

What a wicked thing to say

You never felt this way

What a wicked thing to do

To make me dream of you

And I don't want to fall in love

No I don't want to fall in love with you

I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you

I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you

No I don't want to fall in love

No I don't want to fall in love with you

This world is only gonna break your heart