Stories

My previous post made me think of this post. I'm a sucker for this kind of story. And this kind of story, part one and part two. Both these stories should knock your socks off because they are both brilliant stories by excellent writers.

And it's pathetic but that's all I have to offer you after this long week of awfulness in which a part of me is dying. My wonderful little clothing shop will be closing its doors in about two weeks. Such a magical little place in which I've met so many wonderful people and made some cool friends... it's going to be gone and I'm a bit not-very-happy about it, to say the least. The Dreaded One is sad too.

But fuck it. There's always newness and new beginnings and re-invention. You just have to find your new happy thing.

Shagged

Shagged. Just finished two 15 hour reasonably hectic shifts with a five hour nap separating them, so I don't really trust myself to write anything that makes sense. So instead here is my next Grumpy column as it appears in Tsunami mag.

Commencing intense alcohol wind down. Night night... Ooh - Nick Cave special on the telly. Sweet.

Grumpy

Lee Bemrose

Sometimes my working lives are so far apart from each other it does my head in. For example, I am somehow part of the team of chefs at The Sydney Opera House that will be feeding George Bush and his Australian girlfriend John Howard during this fiasco called APEC. Various spook organisations have apparently done background checks on us to ensure that no matter how much we might not like these storm-trooping world leaders, we’re not going to attempt to assassinate them. Brilliant idea, isn’t it? Get some of the world’s most unpopular leaders together in a building that doesn’t exactly blend into the background, shut down the city, close private businesses, commandeer private carparks in the surrounding area, spend squillions on defence so that the leaders of various countries can... can do what exactly? Talk about stuff. Oh yeah – and last night on the news it was announced that the public will be denied access to nearby public areas to watch the massive fireworks display being put on for George & Johnny. I’m glad they get to watch the fireworks in private. It’s so romantic it makes me shit in my pants. With all the security and undercover going on, we keep making nervous jokes about how we should be paid danger money. But you know, I kind of think we should be paid danger money.

At the other extreme, I have this very cool clothing shop called Psydeways. It’s a great little place that pulls all sorts of party people. International visitors drop in to find out about the local scene. I meet like-minded party people all day long, talk about various parties and DJs... you call this work? Also, I get to dress the mannequins and girliquins. And I’m fucking good at it too. As good as any gay guy I know.

Also, the other day a customer came out of the changeroom wearing a cute little top. Checked herself out in the mirror. Turned one way, then the other. She looked hot. She looked pleased, then frowned. She jutted out her perky chest a little and said, “Is the top see-through?” I looked at her breasts but couldn’t tell. So I moved closer and squinted while she jutted... and yeah, it was kinda see-through. “But in a good way,” I reassured her. She looked pleased again and bought the top.

The job with danger money or the one without? Hmm. Think I’ll take both.

Typical Day At The Office

Today everything about my shop was giving me the shits. I just didn't want to be there.

Still, it's quiet and I have to write a story about Earthdance. I do a lot of background reading and get started, and suddenly my story about Earthdance has talking whales in it. This amuses me a lot. I start to wonder if the new editor will let me get away with as much as the old editor did.

A good friend who won't let me call her by her name logs on and we have an extensive discussion about minions and how cool it would be to have them. I decide that minions will be the topic of my next Grumpy column.

But then I start to wonder if maybe something to do with my involvement with APEC might have better comic potential than minions. Did I mention my involvement with APEC? I'm going to be working as one of the chefs at the Sydney Opera House where the Asia Pacific Economic Community conference is being held - a building that may as well have a big bullseye on the side. Fucking hell, they really chose a hard to pick target, didn't they.

Anyway, if my background is cleared by ASIO and the CIA and whoever else is doing the security checks, I'll be part of the team feeding the likes of George Bush and his Australian girlfriend John Howard. Regular readers will find this amusing because you know how qualified I am. And if you're an ASIO or CIA first time reader, I hope you find the Australian girlfriend line as amusing as it's meant to be.

The Earthdance story is going well, but I am interrupted by a promoter/DJ friend who comes into the shop to pick up ticket sales. In the course of the conversation he wonders if it was a bad thing to have a joint before having his massage. His face is all mooshy from putting it in that doughnut pillow thing but he is as hyperactive as always, and a bit grumpy that he is not doing the closing set on the psytrance stage at Earthdance like he usually does.

He leaves. I go back to the talking whales. I have a feeling I won't be able to make it to the theatre so I email the relevant person to change my tickets to Saturday night.

Lucky because a guy comes into the shop around about the time I decide to close up and leave. He stays. And Stays. And stays. By this time I really am not happy. It's been an okay day sales-wise, but I just want to not be there.

Then the guy starts to buy stuff. And more stuff. And, like, a ridiculous amount of stuff. We start talking. He is going to Burning Man. I mention Soulclipse, the eclipse festival I went to in Turkey last year. He was there. We chat. We get along okay. I ask what he does for work because he has an American accent. He tells me he is with the CIA.

That last bit was a joke. The Customer From Heaven is with a company called something like Giggle? Gaggle? Google! It's Google, and he is setting up a Sydney office. I think Google people must have nice pay packets.

So anyway, long and short of it, what with minions and talking whales and stoned promoters and Men From Google, I had a total mood swing. I loved the shop again.

Shopping

Although the shop has been a drag lately, it just rocks today. Today is the reason we stuck with it through tough times. It can be such a silly amount of fun. It's obviously good when it's been busy and there have been sales, but it's the other stuff that really makes it so cool. This week I chatted to a couple of Goths visiting from interstate who loved the shop, an emo girl with green hair who said she hoped the shop was not going to close, and a visitor from the suburbs of the Central Coast who was amazed that such a shop existed and walked around for ages like she thought she was on another planet.

Recently I had this conversation with a customer:

Him: So that's two expensive items I'm going to buy - will you give me a discount?

Me: No.

Him: Come on. Just knock ten bucks off.

Me: Why would I do that? You're going to buy them anyway.

Him: Yeah, but I just want a discount.

Me: You're an arsehole. I can sell them to someone else without giving a discount but in any case you're fully going to buy them regardless.

Him: Yeah but you're going to give me a discount anyway because you're a good guy.

We were laughing through all this and I gave him his discount and he left the store a happy customer, surprise gift for his girlfriend tucked under his arm. It was a funny little encounter that left me smiling - such a small discount that it obviously wasn't about the money. And I'll bet he'll be back.

Also, I've had Vancouverians in all week. They googled Sydney psytrance and discovered the shop and man do they love it. They've been back three times during the week, bought loads of clothes, shown me pictures from back home, brought friends to the shop, told me they're coming back with a CD they meant to bring to give to me... and while they're in the shop other customers I don't know tell me how sad they are that we're trying to sell the shop because they love it so much, a friend calls in and I tell him about Jocey falling over in the park and we stand there in the middle of the shop having a really good laugh, then plan to catch up for a beer at the party tonight.

I look around and realise that the Canadians are going to be at the party and they're going to have a blast and make loads of friends, and I know already that I am probably going to become a friend and that they are going to totally adore The Dreaded One... and this is a day at work.

The shop is empty now and I'm typing this while Sirius Issness is belting through the speakers, and I am really sad that we couldn't make the shop work. But I'm also pretty chilled about it because of the good parts.

Like, what other environment are you going to have someone walk up to you and say, "Hey Lee, this is my friend Ben. He's Megatron."

Days like this, I know that I am really, really going to miss the shop.

Lee Lacks Focus

I think more than one of my school report cards said something along the lines of "Lee lacks focus." I think they may have been onto something.

Yesterday I applied for a job as a noir screenwriter for a gaming company. They liked what I sent and asked a bunch of us to write an audition noir story based on some sample news stories from the L.A Times in 1947. I haven't really done much straight noir, just a few send-ups, but the story came easily and was fun to write. Impossible to guess what the competition is like, of course, but I'm actually happy enough with how it turned out to send it to a noir mag. Main character is Detective John Slater, and I kinda like him. Deadline is not until Monday but the story came so quickly that I sent it in on Friday. Not the usual relationship I have with deadlines. Fingers crossed with this one too.

I started writing the story while in my clubbing clothing shop. Weird to be in a rave shop writing like Raymond Chandler, especially when we are involved in this fashion parade next week and I should have been working on ideas for that. See? Lacks focus.

Anyway, all good. We have a four minute slot. The Dreaded One and I have the music, we have fire twirlers, we have models who we are dressing tomorrow. We also have a makeup artist. Remember Ula? She was in the shop again the other day and I happened to ask what she is studying. Makeup artistry. She is going to be our makeup artist.

Now I am writing this blog post when I should be editing a Q&A I did with Jeff Buckley's photographer and writing my Grumpy column, which this month will be about how clubbing friends you've known for years can remain complete strangers. Had a very silly conversation with some doofers last week where we were all pretty surprised to find we had jobs that were entirely different to what we had all assumed. Clearly all the hours of conversations we've had at multi-day outdoor parties over the years have been utter bollocks and nothing real.

And another frustrating twist in the Meow Meow/Comatose With Desire saga... I mentioned what had happened to a publicist I know, and she said she knows the artist quite well. In fact there was a function a few weeks back at the Opera House that I helped cater for, changed out of my chef outfit and attended as a guest. Turns out that Meow Meow's creator was also there and the publicist could have introduced us... aaargh. It was another solo attendance and I could have done with some company too. That would have been lovely.

Still, I have been pretty spoiled in the life-is-lovely area lately, so I really can't complain.

Emo Therapy

Working in the shop today, a bunch of emo kids trudge in. They're a funny bunch because they do it all the time - they'll walk right into the shop like they're walking into their loungeroom. They don't acknowledge my existence at all. They poke at the clothing. They murmur amongst themselves. They slump down onto the couch. Kind of shits me a little because as a shop owner, I'm opening my door to them and inviting them in, so the least they could do is look at me and say hello.

My way of dealing with it now though is to say hello to them. Maybe ask them how they are today. It usually freaks them out a little, a non-emo treating them like regular person.

"Hello," I say to one of them today. "How are you?"

"Good," he replies, looking like he's just shit his pants with the sadness of it all.

"That's good. Having a good day then?"

He replies with a murmurgrunt that could mean any one of a thousand things. The expression on his pallid face takes me back to a time when our car hit a bird and when we got out to inspect the feathers caught in the front grill, my father squeezed my shoulder and said, "Looks like we just ran over your guardian angel, son. Sorry about that." Emo kid looks like he's about to sob with untold sorrow.

They shuffle around the shop, mumbling to each other. I can tell they're not going to buy anything.

Then the murmurgrunt kid comes over, head down. He reaches a scrawny hand out to the glowsticks section and counts out four glow sticks. He's got a $10 note scrunched up in his other bony fist. "Is it okay if I have these?" he asks, his tone indicating that he fully believes there is the very real possibility of me laughing in his face with contempt and saying fuck off - what do you think this is? A shop? Get the fuck out of here.

I say yeah sure with a smile. We do the transaction. I bag his glowsticks, not sure what someone burdened with such aching sadness is going to do with something as bright and silly as glowsticks.

The group coagulates and shuffles funereally back out of the shop.

Little Shop Of Happiness

Oh dear. I did disintegrate rapidly in that last post. 15 hours is a pretty long shift, and it's physical all the way so I am getting into shape. I'm basically getting paid to exercise my physical muscles and my thinking muscle. I don't really spend a lot of time checking my butt out in the mirror. It's just that I'm sore all over, including my butt. I must clench my buttocks when stressed or something.

I'm in the shop today. Business is pootling along nicely. The drummer fromn Frenzal Rhomb was the first customer. Kinda cool. Then there's been a steady stream of ravers gearing up for Godspeed's White Night. They get so excited, which is also cool. The other day a guy came up from Canberra for the party tonight and called into the shop to hang out and chat for an hour and a half. He was waiting for check in time for his hotel in the city, and rather than a cafe or whatever, he wanted to hang out here. Too much coolness. Not Fonzie cool, just warm and fuzzy cool.

Another girl was in here on her phone telling a friend where she was. "I'm in Psydeways," she said. Just like that, no other explanation needed.

We're not making money from it, but things like that just make me realise that we really have done something. Just created this cool little thing.

We sell phat pants here with the most tripped out reflector designs on them. Some of them are custom designed by the ravers. They sketch a design, we get their measurements, get a quote from the designer and get the pants made up. Girl just came in to collect hers. I asked if she wanted to try them on, and when she came out of the changeroom, man you should have seen the happiness. She was bouncing all over the shop and giggling with delight. She wore them out the shop into the 3pm sunshine, pants almost as bright as her smile. Sure, it's good to make a sale, but seeing that kind of happiness, well, it's cool, innit.

Less cool was Mr Creepy who came in last Thursday. I call him Mr Creepy because he was very creepy. But I don't want to talk about him right now and end on a creepy note. I just want to say that although it's a struggle, I quite like our colourful little shop of happiness.

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.

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.