Travel Arrangements

Grumpy

Grumpy is night owl and freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). He thinks it's never too late to check the travel arrangements whilst humming classic Monty Python songs like “Sit on my face and tell me that you love me...”

Being a late night person, I usually go to bed after The Dreaded One. I usually open the door and wait to make sure the coast is clear; sometimes she snores and it's usually easier to just hit the other room or the couch. Tonight, the coast is indeed clear. I climb into bed as gently and quietly as possible. All is quiet. I realise I really should have gone to bed earlier as it's only four and a half hours until I have to get up again. This is usually the last conscious thought I have before drifting to sleep. Will I ever learn? I doubt it.

My breathing stops. I squint into the darkness to hear better... and yes. Damnit. I've been ambushed. She has waited until I am almost asleep before starting to snore. It's the tiniest, snuffliest snore. It's actually quite cute, but I know it has the potential to grow into something quite monstrous. It might flicker out of its own accord like a candle in the wind, or it could turn into a raging firestorm. I have no idea why I decided to use fire as a snoring metaphor, but there you go. There it is.

The snuffle grows. I bounce about a bit under the covers. This breaks the snuffle, but not for long. It returns like the bad memory of a really stupid metaphor. I caress The Dreaded One's forearm and this also stops the snore, but also, too, as well, not for long. The snore increases in volume and as I focus all my mind powers on not getting irritated, I start to feel irritated. I know it's a lost cause. I now have less than four hours before my alarm goes off, so I gently climb out of bed and head to the living room feeling mopey and tired. I stretch out on my couch and enjoy the silence. I feel I'll nod off quite quickly and think that four hours is not such a bad sleep.

Suddenly, I don't know what the hell happens. One second I am completely asleep, the next I have been hit on the head by something. Have I been punched? Am I being smothered? I can't breathe, which would indicate that some form of smotherage is taking place.

“Mmmmmppphmm!” I declare hysterically. “Mmmnnnthhhhppphhh?” I enquire hysterically.

The thing jumps off my head and I realise with bewilderment that The Dreaded One just totally sat on my head.

“Oh Grumpy, honey. I'm sorry. I didn't mean... did I sit on your head?”

“Totally. You totally sat on my head. Why did you do that?”

I'm in full-blown sulky, hard-done-by mode now. I've gone to great lengths to not disturb her sleep, and she returns the favour by sitting on my head.

“What's going on?” I demand, indulging in a little justified grumpiness. “What are you doing?”

“I'm so sorry... I was just checking on the travel arrangements...” She points to the corner of the room where I suppose the travel arrangements are supposed to be. Confusion starts to spread across her face, although it's not a patch on the confusion I was wracked by less than two minutes ago.

“You what? Travel arrangements?” I fondle my nose. It doesn't feel broken.

“Yeah, I just wanted to make sure the travel...” She is squinting into the corner.

“Ah. The travel arrangements. I see. You're not quite awake yet, are you?”

“I'm not... sure.”

She looks adorable. I wrap my arms around her and she snuggles in. “Come on, lets give this sleep thing another go.”

I ooze charm and chivalry, but I am thinking, no one sits on my head and gets away with it - I am sooo going to get her for this.

Grumpy With Celebrity

GRUMPY

Grumpy is Tsunami apprentice celebrity columnist and freelance scribbler Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). Want him to wash your car in his undies? You couldn't afford it.

This whole celebrity thing has gotten a bit weird, hasn't it? I don't even know who most of the celebrity population are. Why are they celebrities? What did they do to become celebrities? And why do they seem so desperate to remain a celebrity? A celebrity sounds like an awful thing to be. I mean it's nice to get a bit of attention from friends and family on special occasions and when you've done something they can be proud of, but modern, full-blown celebrity seems to be a result of the complete opposite of these things. Get arrested lots of times for drink driving and you're guaranteed to stay in the pages of celebrity gossip mags. Make a celebrity sex tape and leaking it to the internet, ditto (have you ever seen celebrity sex tapes? Mostly they are poorly shot, there's little by way of plot and the dialogue is terrible. Apparently).

You can even become a celebrity by killing lots of people and going to jail for it. For a while there just after Carl Williams was bashed to death (by a guy who I'm sure is now some kind of underworld celebrity), mainstream media were reporting the story and referring to this murderous scumbag as 'Carl.' Surely first name basis is a term of endearment, no? I was waiting for the day they started calling him 'Our Carl.'

Oh and I have a confession to make; a column or two ago I referenced a celebrity in a joky way without even knowing properly who she was. I was trying to prove a point and said something like “It was like bumping into Kim Kardashian at a Mensa meeting.” At that time I didn't have a clue who this Kardashian person was. I needed a name to make a point of how unlikely this thing was to happen and the name Kim Kardashian came to mind. By the small amount of information that has made it into my mind by osmosis... let me re-phrase that: by the small amount of information about Kim Kardashian that has made it into my mind, I thought the idea of bumping into this particular celebrity at a Mensa meeting would be comically unlikely (as comically unlikely as the implied suggestion that I might ever be in a position to bump into someone at said meeting). But I really didn't know who she was or why this should be funny. Maybe she is actually really brainy, as well as having big boobs, a pretty face and a shitty TV show.

Something else that made it into my mind by osmosis is a thing... a terrible, terrible monstrosity called Celebrity Apprentice. Have you seen it? Oh dear. I saw a bit where another baffling celebrity, Pauline Hanson, changed into undies to wash some guy's car. Forget the damn car – use that power water gun to wash my eyes! Nothing – absolutely nothing – about this was entertaining. It was not funny. It was not sexy or even risqué. It was just dumb. As dumb as the entire premise of this show. It highlights just how desperately some celebrities cling to their celebrity. They have had their 15 minutes years ago but will do anything to rise from the dead and, well, do anything if it means getting their head on telly, vomiting up the last microbes of their dignity to cling with gnarled, bony claws to their precioussss, precioussss celebrity.

No doubt the gaggle of celebrities parading their buffoonery on this vacuum of intelligence, sophistication and dignity would say, “Grumpy – lighten up. It's just a bit of fun. And besides – look at the ratings. That many viewers can't be wrong.”

No, and a million flies can't be wrong, right?

I've said it before and I'll say it again – you humans, you baffle me.

Ghost Train

Girl on a train,
Prettiest girl I ever saw,
I think you saw me looking at you,
I think you smiled,
But I looked away.

Girl on a train,
Prettiest girl I ever saw,
When you looked through the window,
Were you looking at me?
While I looked at you?
Ghostly reflections.

Girl on a train,
Train pulls away,
One last time I see you,
Looking through the window, ghostly reflection,
Girl on a train,
Prettiest girl I ever saw.

Sleeping Dog

The best part of the day
Is when it's dark
And quiet,
Gentle and grey,
And there is the possibility
Of something.

The day will break,
but now there are lingering lights,
A hangover from the night.
And so many possibilities,
Of bright things.

In the early hours,
Time slows,
Time is gentle,
Time is quiet and grey,
And Out There is so far away.

I'm not happy in this grey,
This peace,
This hangover,
This shadow of possibility,
But at least that dog is quiet.

And I might just make it through to see
Another quiet,
Gentle, grey beginning,
Of another day.

You're amazing

I was in a club last week with The Dreaded One. In hindsight we shouldn't have gone out. Not a bad night, just one we went along to out of habit more than anything. Okay night, it's just that I expect magic these days. Some nights, random magic and hilarity flies about all over the place.

One funny thing though... I was dancing away for a while and decided to take a break. As I left the dancefloor a girl stopped me and said simply, "You're amazing."

You're amazing. That's pretty big.

I was wearing my AD 2013 jacket, affectionately known by those in the know as Pretty, because it's a drop-dead cool jacket. I was also wearing my new Leafy Sea Dragons pants, which are drop-dead cool pants.

Possibly, the girl meant my clothes were amazing, which is a nice thing to say. I do like my clothes.

Or maybe - and upon reflection this is more likely - she was simply throwing a line at a random stranger to see if she could get a bite. Say that kind of thing and I guess most guys in a club are going to take the bait.

"Hey, amazing, you say? Why don't I buy you a drink and we can sit down and talk about all the ways you find me amazing." Something like that.

My reflex reaction? "Hoh - you are!" With an accusatory point. It was like we were eight years old on the school playground and she had just told me I was a smelly monkey's bum. I don't think it was quite the reaction she was expecting.

Her reaction? A moment of confusion, then, "No you are!" Adopting the mannerism of an eight year old who knows that it takes one to know one.

We laughed and it was a nice little moment.