Not A Review Of The Very Excellent Nick Cave, Melbourne, December 2014

I'm not reviewing Nick Cave from last night because I was just a punter... and yet today as I made another punter's coffee, sentences like this drifted through my mind...

"Counterpointing the gorgeous simplicity that is Nick Cave's lyrics, vocals and piano of, say, The Ship Song, were other songs of a more chaotic nature. I would loved for it to have been Stagger Lee (he was never going to play that one), but it was probably Higgs Boson Blues or even something more fucked up, in which each performer seems to go off into their own crazy world for a while and do their own fucked up thing... Warren Ellis hunched and terrorising a small stringed instrument, making it squeal and cry and howl; Nick Cave might also have been howling, or hitting some random metal things; somewhere some kind of crazy bell and keyboards and strobing lights and savage lyrics that make sense in a darkly supernatural way. It's crazy, cacophony for sure, but it's the most wonderfully harmonious and exciting cacophony you're ever likely to hear..."

Back in the real world: And here is your soy chai latte.

Brainspill December 2011

Someone reminded me the other day that a blog is an open diary, and that is indeed true. It's a personal diary that everyone is welcome to read. And I realised I haven't been doing much diarising lately, just posting my Grumpy column every two weeks and maybe a theatre review.

And in being so lazy, people everywhere throughout all the lands have probably been wondering what has been going on? What has been happening in the life of Lee and The Dreaded One since they moved to their new home city? What? What? Tell us, Lee.

So much. That is what. So much. Problem is, because I know people I know read this open diary, there are still some things I can't talk about. Big things. Dark struggles. I went through a bit of shit earlier this year. It was ugly, people, even when writing my stoopid Grumpy columns. All was not as it seemed. Maybe one day I'll talk about it. Maybe I'll just use it in some fiction. Just know, it wasn't a smooth landing in Melbourne after a year of leisure.

But I think I'm through it somewhat now. I still need to change things and I need to be around my kind of people more. I've realised I'm the exact same fish-out-of-water I always have been when around certain types of people. And in the work environment... oh God I turn to shit. Family, school, workplace, I'm shit because I'm in a situation I don't want to be in surrounded by people I have had no choice in. Some in all three of the above can be excellent, but mostly I'm just more comfortable when random humans have actually chosen each other.

But good stuff. There has been good stuff. See the photo above? The Dreaded One and me with my old friend Chloe, her new boy Toby and his old mate Greg. For some reason, this is one of my favourite photos of us. I like that there is history (both ancient and modern), that there is silliness and laughter.

Friends have been coming down to visit and it has been really cool. It's been great having those old familiar Ugg boots of humans. The ones you know so well. Morning hugs. Late night hugs. Endless mindless banter and the occasional earnest talk. Strange that your friends can come and stay with you and your home suddenly takes on a stronger sense of home. I've wanted them to stay, but we are all atttached to elastic bands pulling us back to somewhere else.

But it has been good. And I know they have enjoyed staying here and will want to come back and I know we want to go and stay with them.

And New People. Strange things afoot. Don't want to jinx myself so I wont, other than to say I appear to have bumped into a same-wavelength human and as a result will probably finish the play I started a while ago and forgot about. She the director of a new theatre co... I really shouldn't talk about it just yet. Other than to say that she has produced a couple of Thomas Sainsbury plays and that in looking for local talent capable of writing dark comed... no really. Let's see what happens.

And reading. Bugger me - who would have ever thought I'd be back into reading novels again. I really thought electronicdancemusicclubs&doof+seratonindepletion had ended my enjoyment of novels, but nup. Been eating them up. Most recently read a couple of Max Barry novels (Syrup and Machine Man) and am now reading A Visit From The Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan. Holy crap this last one is blowing my mind with the quality of writing. Seriously good stuff. Might write more about these books in another post.

What else... Had a short story published in a local lit mag, which was nice. Had my photo taken with Meow Meow. Met a theatre critic whose writing I like a lot by saying to the new local person, "Do you know the theatre critic Chris Boyd?" Meaning do you know of him because that man over there in the crowd looks a bit like him to me. She said yes. I asked if that was him (pointing discreetly). She said, "Yes - would you like me to introduce you?" They have been friends for many years and it was just a nice thing to happen. She introduced us and it was nice.

Then I said hello to Meow Meow and that was even nicer.

What else... Dreaded One is at her work Christmas party. She enjoys her job. This is a concept I cannot understand. Working for dollars... ergh. Necessary evil. But some people enjoy it. I was tempted to go and see Midnight In Paris while she was out but in the end really enjoy going solo to the movies in the afternoon. So I'm here instead, telling you stuff.

We are planning our next trip. Mid-next year. South of France, Spain, Portugal, maybe Spain again. It was the weirdest feeling to start researching accomodation and travel routes and it just feeling so natural. If I could do that for a living, I might just be happy in my workplace.

What else. Is there anything else? Yes. Yes there are more friends coming down this weekend and we are going to a Talamasca party at Ceres. And soon another friend is coming down and it will be Christmas very soon and I will be unemployed again, and January will involve road trips and parties (Rainbow Serpent coming round again), and then Maitreya and a new year of possibilities and endless credit card debts.

And there will be more theatre, more Melbourne. And hopefully I can shake the gloom, the gloom that ruins the magical sight of the hot air balloons hanging in the clear dawn sky each morning; the gloom of not being truly free.

That's all for now. Mostly, stuff is good and there is promise and there are posibilities and I am grateful for that.

I hope you enjoy the photo of old and new friends as much as I do.

Pod Of Friends, Collins Street, Sept 20 2011. A Memorable Moment For No One.

Walking along Collins Street today happily off in my bubble, I eventually notice that the street seems a lot more crowded than usual. Why is everyone packed in so closely and talking so much? I look around and realise I'd simply wandered into a pod of friends dawdling along talking to each other. They all look a bit the same. They talk in groups of two or three or more, sometimes one conversation spilling over into another. Outside the pod, the street is normal. Normal pace, normal space. I've been inside the pod for at least five minutes. I think about staying longer but decide it's time to go.

A Grumpy Love Song

This story will be familiar to some of you. I needed a Grumpy column and came across my one and only attemps at song-writing and the circumstances around it and thought I'd recycle a bit. It really is a coincidence that I've moved to this city and that I am currently working in this particular theatre.

Grumpy

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com) His new venture as a love balladeer extraordinaire may be shorter lived than he hoped.

When it comes to writing, I've tried most forms with varying degrees of success... or varying degrees of failure, depending on how you view these things. I've been lucky enough to win an award for a sad love story, have had sad and funny love stories published in a variety of mags and lit journals and even the odd crime story has found an audience. I just think what the hell, you have to give things a go.

Rummaging through old files recently I discovered that I have also tried a bit of song writing. It all came about after I reviewed an internationally famous cabaret diva and in my review (which, I guess, did turn into a bit of a declaration of love) I mentioned that by the end of her show I “was comatose with desire.”

Bugger me, I thought, wouldn't Comatose With Desire make a good song title. Sounded like something The Smiths would come up with. Next time I interviewed the internationally famous cabaret diva I told her about my idea for a song for her. Her response? “Stop stalking me.”

Encouraged by her enthusiasm, I set about writing my first love song:

Comatose With Desire

I would walk the desert sands for you,
Move mountains and part seas for you,
I would hold my breath and turn blue for you,
You make me comatose with desire.

Comatose with desire,
Comatose with desire,
You make me
Comatose with desire.

Your presence penetrates me,
It envelopes and smothers me,
You choke the very life out of me,
And make me comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

Your beauty intoxicates,
It makes my pupils dilate,
And my heart fibrillate,
I’m so comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

To know you is to know humility,
You degrade and humiliate me,
And leave me snivelly and whimpery,
And comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

My unrequited lust for you,
Has crushed my heart, it’s true,
And another vital organ or two,
And left me comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

I am a peaceful village,
That you rape and pillage,
My heart buuuurns for yoooo... because you set it on fire,
I am comatose with desire.

(Chorus)

Your indifference to me
Has made me quite loony,
I am drugged...
And bound...
And dribbling...
In the... mental... asylum... of love...

(Chorus, with sad echoey effects and maybe one of those eerie theremin things).

I sent the song to my diva. Her response? “Really, darling, if you don't stop stalking me...” She also pointed out that the song made no sense because if she sang it, who was she singing it to? Who was the 'You' in the song. Me, I ventured? “I don't sing love songs to stalkers.”

I interviewed her for another mag twice after that (“Stop stalking me! Stop stalking me!”), but it's gone quiet between us since then.

By complete coincidence, the new city I've recently moved to is also the hometown of our internationally famous cabaret diva. And by an even bigger coincidence I've scored a job at the very same theatre she performs her new show at in a few short weeks.

It's going to be so lovely to catch up with her again.

Confusion

Grumpy

The new place The Dreaded One and I live in, it's right above a large shopping complex. It's so convenient – run out of anything and it's a quick elevator ride downstairs (why is it still downstairs when it's an elevator ride?). I can be in the local bottle shop before most people can make it to their front gate.

Curiously, though, our downstairs shopping complex has two supermarkets from the same chain. Two Coles, known to us as Good Coles and Not Good Coles because although one minute's walk separates them, one is good and one is, erm, not good. I'm not sure what the differences is exactly... they both play the same crappy music, they both carry the same produce... it's a vibe thing. And the fact that The Person Who Decides Where Stuff Goes in Not Good Coles appears to be a direct descendant of Dali's.

Both stores recently implemented a policy of having a meet-and-greet person at the entrance. Their job is to smile and ask you how you are and hand you a shopping basket.

I'm not sure who thought this was a good idea, but it's a very strange experience. The people doing it are very good about it (although the dude at Not Good Coles is clearly struggling with what he obviously thinks of as the very extreme low-point of this whole stupid life but gives a grudging gesture of faux pleasantness with lips generally reserved for sneering), but you can tell that even the ones at Good Coles know that it's all a bit silly. Nevertheless you make eye contact and smile and tell them you are well and ask how they are as you accept the shopping basket.

Thing is, you get used to it. It's just a done thing. It all becomes almost second nature. It becomes as natural as putting one foot in front of the other. Suddenly there is a new person in your life and their role is to hand you a shopping basket. In its way, it's a change for the better because it takes the pressure off. It's one less thing to think about in our cluttered, busy lives.

But what happens if Shopping Basket Person is not there?

Maybe they're just hanging out outside getting a lung cancer hit. Maybe they've quit. Maybe... look I don't know where they are, all I know is they are not here and I don't know what to do. Usually they are here with the handles on the top baskets turned perkily up in anticipation of being handed from Shopping Basket Person to the grateful shopper. But they are not here and what happens next? The whole system has crashed. What next? What next? The confusion is overwhelming. How does the shopping basket get all the way into my hand if Shopping Basket Person is not there to ensure that this very complex process runs smoothly?

I move in confused circles. I desperately look for Shopping Basket Person. I flap my arms a bit. I scratch my head. The handles on the shopping baskets have not even been turned up. Is this a sign? Am I not allowed to take a shopping basket until someone with appropriate skills turns up to rectify the situation? Or do I go to the front counter and alert Front Counter Person that Shopping Basket Person has gone MIA. Or AWOL. Or both MIA and AWOL at the same time. Perhaps Good Coles is losing customers to Not Good Coles because they cannot cope with the confusion this... this... this crisis has brought on?

I'm sending this dispatch from my phone whilst stranded at the deserted shopping basket post. There have been no further developments. I feel weary. Please send help or I fear I may have to abandon the operation and make my way to Not Good Coles...

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). He thinks the meet-and-greet thing would be much more successful if they replaced Shopping Basket Person with Hundred Dollar Note Person.

Elmore Leonard Versus Barbara Cartland

I'm reading Elmore Leonard's Get Shorty at the moment. It's an excellent book, or at least what's on the inside is excellent. But the cover... what were they thinking? The issue I have (even camper than the one in the link) is various hues of pink and pastel blue with his name in shiny shiny gold. I'm almost embarrassed to be seen reading it on the tram each morning. I'm forced to whisper to the person sitting oppsite, "Elmore Leonard... not Barbara Cartland." Then a little louder to those sitting around or standing up in the aisle, "Definitely NOT Barbara Cartland, people - it's tough funny guy Elmore Leonard, okay?"


Also, I checked a rarely used email account yesterday and found this email from music journo Cyclone:

"Hey Lee!

I was given your contact by the 3D peepz.

You'll have heard that sadly 3D World is folding (http://themusic.com.au/newsletter/street-press-australia-to-launch-new-mag). I've been assigned to write a cover story on its history for the final edition (arghh). Of course, it's all come up late and after the usual official deadline (you know how street press is!) so it's been a mad scramble to find and contact people who may be up for a quote or two!

Anyway I was wondering if you would be up for answering any of the questions below given your iconic role as Grumpy?

I'd so appreciate it!

The plan is to slam something together tonight so if you can even answer a couple below, that would rock!

Cheers!

Cyc"

The email was sent three weeks ago. I totally missed out. It's like Marlon Brando said in On The Waterfront, "I coulda been a someone... I coulda been iconic instead of just a schmuck, which let's face it, I am." Something like that.

The Pyamid Of Northcote

Heading out to dinner last night, we walked to Northcote train station. We dutifully tried to 'touch on' with our Myki cards but neither of the sensors were working. It's a good system, when it works. In a bit of role reversal, The Dreaded One gave up after a couple of attempts while I got all terrier on its arse. I was convinced I could get it to work by trying again and again, swearing at it and biting the end of my tongue. Finally it did indeed work, the little blinky light came on and the screen told me that $3 had been deducted from my account. Punch the air! High five! Yesss!

Then one of the two only other people on the station pushed the button that dials into the timetable place and the recorded message came over the loudspeakers to tell us that there were no trains running, that busses had replaced the trains. Awesome. This has happened before. What I don't get is why the hell someone doesn't put a sign up telling us that this is the case. There is absolutely no indication anywhere that there are no trains running. Just pin a hand-written note to the wall. Hell - they make automated announcements at other times telling us about delays - surely... oh never mind. Lesson learned after this happening for the second time - assume the trains are not running and confirm this before paying for your ticket.

The other couple left at the same time as us and asked if we were going into the city. We were going to Richmond, on the way to the city. The guy suggested we share a cab. They seemed like nice people. They had been laughing, they were well dressed, well spoken, young and good looking so we thought why not? This kind of thing always seems to be happening in Melbourne. Strangers strike up conversation at tram stops and railways stations. I don't recall this being quite so common in Sydney.

Anyway, we started walking back up to the main road. The Dreaded One and the guy walked ahead chatting about general stuff and I started talking to the girl. She was amazingly pretty and had a strange accent that I eventually had to ask her about. She said she was Persian. Conversation was easy. We flagged a cab and the conversation kept flowing. They seemed genuinely interested in our story of selling our home, traveling the world and settling in a new city. They lived nearby and I could sense this being the beginning of a new friendship. His name was Aria. Hers was Paria.

As promising as the vibe was I was content to leave things up to fate. If we bump into them again in the hood, cool, we'll say hello and see what happens.

But as we drew close to our drop off point, with Aria and Paria continuing into the city, the conversation changed colour.

"So," Aria said to The Dreaded One from the front seat, "if you're working corporate hours, I guess you have a bit of free time on your hands."

Everything about him changed in that one question. A dull bell chimed. My radar came on. Time to hit the conversational eject button.

We talked a bit about how we fill in our spare time. We have lots of interests, loads of things we enjoy doing with our spare time. Aria was deaf to this. He knew he only had a couple of minutes before we got out of the cab.

"So you have free time then... I just mention this because Aria and I are involved in a plan that help people and lets you make a bit of money at the same time. That's why we do it - because we like to help people. Maybe you're not interested in helping people though... "

It was time to get the hell out. The cab pulled over and we worked out how much we owed. Aria pushed on with his spiel. I felt compelled to be polite but was not interested, and in fact was pretty pissed that he had ruined the vibe like this. I asked upfront what the name of the scheme was.

"Oh I don't want to tell you the name of it without explaining it properly... I mean I could tell you the name but... maybe I can take your number and talk to you about it over coffee sometime..."

I asked if he had a card as I slid across the seat to the open door, Paria standing outside to let us out. He didn't have a card, but he could take our number and call us sometime.

Jesus. He hadn't been genuinely interested in us at all, at least not on a decent, personal level. He had just been profiling us to see if we might want to sit below him on whatever pyramid scheme he was involved in. I had gone from thinking this is one of those random meetings that could lead to new friendship to feeling like an idiot. Everything had gone from shiny to grubby in the name of peddling some sham scheme.

I got out of the cab and chatted to Paria about the weather while The Dreaded One politely gave Aria her number. This is fine because we can just tell him we're not interested. I kind of hope that they are decent people (I think they are) who will accept no for an answer then either stay in touch without bringing it up again, or they will accept no and disappear. I don't care either way.

I just find it a bit sad that someone can pretend to be interested in you, to appear genuinely interested in you as a person while all the time waiting for an opportunity to sting you. A family member did this once. Managed to get me to invite her over for dinner only to say something about something she could show The Dreaded One and I at the same time, because we might be interested in making some money out of this thing. I asked what the thing was. She wouldn't tell me because it really needed to be explained in detail and she could do that after the dinner we were going to cook for her. I called it off and didn't hear from her again.

I know Aria knew our walls were up. I know he knows we'll be a hard sell. Thing is, it won't work. When it comes to this kind of thing I like to get to the point, and the point is he's on some level of a dodgy money-making scheme and we don't want anything to do with it. Those things are for suckers. There will be no meeting to discuss things if it's not something he can't quickly and easily describe over the phone. We won't be dropping by their place if there happens to be a casual party at their place one afternoon. Thinking about it, his call will probably be screened and we'll probably not call back. We might bump into them on the street one day. We'll be polite but now better prepared, as soon as he gets his pyramid on I'll cut him off and explain that if they want to be friends, fine, but we are not his next targets and if that's all he sees us as, hasta la vista.

Also, Persian? Isn't that Iranian? I guess it does sound better these days.

Grumpy On The Job

GRUMPY

When we got back from our World Trip Of Friends and moved to another city, the plan was for me to not go back into the same line of work but to get something different. Quite simply I had had too much fun travelling and being idle to want to work as a chef ever again. Cheffing is bloody hard work. I've been a stonemason and a bricklayer before and being a chef is harder work than both, and to be perfectly honest, six months of partying, looking at great art and funny shaped buildings, eating boozey lunches and snoozing on Mediterranean had taken its toll. I think I had deluded myself into thinking that I really could... nay – was entitled to keep living like aristocracy.

“So what are you going to do?” The Dreaded One enquired.

“Dunno,” I replied distractedly, smirking at the talking dog Youtube clip someone had posted on Facebook before hastily re-opening the employment page of Gumtree again and pretending to read it.

She kept up this brutal line of interrogation every day for months after we set up our new home. She, naturally, scored the first job she applied for and has been enjoying her working week more than at any time in her life. I felt as happy for her as I felt sorry for myself. Why could I not find that Idle Aristocrat Wanted ad? It was so unfair.

As the cash buffer ran low I did indeed realise something was going to have to be done. Ideally, realistically, I wanted something that involved writing. I wanted to trade in my chopping board for my keyboard. The perfect job would be to write this column, say, for a living. To just get up each day, thrown on some baggy clothes, crack open a beer (it's okay – my dream job would have me staying up nights because I am a night owl, and sleeping in to around midday) and simply regale readers with my daily adventures.

If I was going to go back into the kitchen, I didn't want the pressure cooker environment of a high- end restaurant, I wanted a daytime job in a nice little cafe, with nice, laidback co-workers.

Recently, I found such a job. Cafe kitchen in a very cool theatre. They gave me a trial day and offered me the job. I like it there. They are lovely people and the customers are all cool theatre types. Really nice vibe.

As timing would have it, I had also applied for an unusual-sounding writing job. This sounded as close to a dream job as you could get (Idle Aristocrat aside). I said in my job application that I don't have any writing qualifications but I have done a lot of writing. I have even won a national short story award and have been published in literary journals, but no formal qualifications. Also, I added, I don't have much of a clue of what this job actually is but it sounds weird enough for me to enjoy and I'd like to apply please.

The guy was amused and apparently impressed with my samples because he called to say I was on the shortlist. Five of us out of hundreds of applicants. We did a role playing interview and I wrote my piece up. The shortlist is now down to me and one other. Face-to-face interview happens tomorrow.

So now I've put myself in this quite horrible position of turning up at the cafe really hoping that my first week there is going to be my last, but really really also not wanting to let these good people down. I've effectively put myself in a position that I don't want to be in. But do. But don't. I hate letting people down but what else can I do? I'm basically putting a dagger through the heart of the trust of my nice new employers (if I get the job... which I will... won't... might... might not), and I don't want to be a murderer. Why did both jobs appear at the same time? What are you such a funny bastard, Universe?

I'll let you know how it pans out in the next column. For now I'm sweating out in a moody cocktail of angst and excitement, hope and sadness. Grumpy? Hell yeah. But happy too. I'm so fucking Yin Yang right now.

Grumpy is freelance Idle Aristocrat Lee Bemrose. If you have any freelance writing or Idle Aristocrat tasks, contact him at leebemrose@hotmail.com

Shadowboxing by James Gaddas, Review

SHADOWBOXING

Written by British actor/writer James Gaddas, Shadowboxing is a one man play coming in at about one muscular hour. I was warned by director John Bishop before entering that “It's no Mary Poppins.” I'm not sure what it was about my appearance that warranted such a warning... I put it down to the sweetness of my tutu wearing, fluro dreaded partner The Dreaded One.

Certainly, Shadowboxing is no Mary Poppins. Nor was it the most gut-wrenching piece of theatre I've seen, as I may have started to expect after the Mary Poppins jibe, nor the most depressing. But it is tough. It's lean. And if I were the kind of reviewer to deploy lame themed descriptions, I might be tempted to say it pulled no punches.

Ron Kofler plays boxer Flynn. He's alone on stage with a punching bag, a bench, some weights and skipping rope. For the entire hour or so he slugs it out, lifts, skips, generally gives himself a thorough workout while sometimes narrating his story, sometimes acting it out. Rehearsal for this part clearly involves as much working-out as delivering his lines. It's a demanding part handled in this case, flawlessly.

And the story? Flynn has issues. He has issues with his father, also a boxer (not present in adult Flynn's life). There are flashbacks to young Flynn apparently traumatised at seeing his father take a beating in the ring which has a lasting effect on the course of Flynn's life, namely his determination to win. Young Flynn also has issues with bullies, all of this by way of background to give us some idea of what drives the adult Flynn.

Flynn also has issues with women, with ego, with his all-consuming determination to be the champ, with the very nature of boxing.

Overriding all these issues, however, is the big one that doesn't reveal itself until perhaps three quarters through the play. It comes as a bit of a surprise, even though, by this time, you realise the clues were perhaps there all along.

Flynn's world starts to fall apart and, embittered, he sets out to prove a point and in doing so makes things a whole lot worse for himself in a pretty disturbing climax.

It was during these final scenes that I started to wonder what the point was. Don't we live in more enlightened times? What we're seeing here – is this such an issue? But then this is elite sport and you only have to thinks of the appalling behaviour of some footballers in recent times to realise that no, many of these guys are far from enlightened. Still, as gripping as the story was, I still wondered about its relevance.

And then a beautiful touch right at the end. The back of the stage lit up with grainy photos of a couple of boxers from the 60s, their story silently told as the gentle optimism of Somewhere Over The Rainbow played, and it all fell into place. While Shadowboxing isn't a re-telling of this 60s story, it does seem to draw heavily on key elements, making Flynn's story very real and – given the nature of boxing as entertainment – very relevant. This haunting coda will leave you feeling quite moved.

It's a brave production company that would take this piece on, given that the script is very good and that it requires a very strong performer to do it justice under these conditions. And it's a good production company that can pull it off. Swampfox Productions is one such company. Well cast, well acted, and technical direction by Dietmar Brisker subtle enough to let this raw performance shine.

Worth the journey to Melbourne's far Eastern suburbs? Definitely. Well maybe not if you live in, say Manhattan, but you know what I mean.

Lee Bemrose

At The Bakery at 1812 Theatre, Rose St, Upper Fern Tree Gully on selected nights until May 14^th. Check www.swampfoxproductions.com.au for details.

Grumpy And The Little Voice

Back from four days partying in the bush. Drove to Braidwood just out of Canberra and had a lovely time. Compared to the last doof we went to (our first in Melbourne that wasn't Rainbow), we knew so many people. It was really good to be at a party with so many friendly faces again... well the faces at Maitreya were friendly, we just didn't know any of them. This, on the other hand, was a real gathering and much fun was had. It was really good to get a solid hit of bush, barefeet and beats.

Needless to say, the apartment looks like a bomb went off. Clothes everywhere and we're trying to dry two tents out on our small balcony (it rained on the last morning we were there).

I've spent the day trying to get the tents and a hammock dry, washing clothes and writing. Had to write the Grumpy column below as well as editing a Q&A from Deya Dova for her new album of remixes and writing up a 550 word story from 1200 words. I haven't done that in ages and I still enjoy it.

I'll post the Deya Dova stuff shortly. For now, here's some Grumpy...

GRUMPY

Another long weekend, another road trip to another festival. This one's an interstate one involving quite a long drive so we decide to break the trip up and stay somewhere overnight.

“Where do you want to stay?”I ask.

“Don't know,” The Dreaded One replies vaguely, packing her bag days before we are due to leave. I, on the other hand, am Last Minute Man. The fact that she is planning so far ahead and I leave everything to the last minute makes things all the more ironic.

I look at the map and pick a couple of places that appear to be halfway. I suggest these halfway places. The Dreaded One is more interested in whether she should pack one corset or two, which tutu goes best with the chosen corset.

“Why don't we just wing it?” she suggests. “Just head off and stop somewhere on the way.”

“What – not book a room?”

“We'll find somewhere.”

I'm not sure about this. “But it's a long weekend. These places, they're halfway places. They're very popular stopping points. What if we get there and everything is booked out?”

“You worry too much. I'm sure we'll find something. Worst comes to worse we can always set up the tent.”

I make a thinky face as I watch her pack her big stompy fluffy boots. She is being completely delusional about using the tent in transit because although we always say this, we have never done it. Setting up the tent once in a long weekend provides quite enough friction; twice is simply out of the question.

“Okay,” I shrug casually. “Fine. Cool. We'll wing it and see what happens.” I am not convinced that this is a good idea.

And sure enough, we cruise through the first halfway place after several hours of driving and the entire town appears to be made of No Vacancy signs. Parking lots are full of cars while weary travellers enjoy cold beer in the pub, settling in for a night of pizza and telly. We don't say anything to each other as I gun it out of town heading for the next halfway place. I wanted to avoid night driving but it's looking like that isn't going to happen.

Two more halfway places, both full. Nothing is available and now it's fully dark.

“Why did we do this?” I lament. “These towns – they're where everyone stays halfway along. People probably booked their cosy hotel rooms days ago. We could have done the same. And if they weren't booked, people have already pulled over and taken the last available rooms. Why oh why didn't I listen to the little voice?”

“The little voice?”

“The little voice! The one that knows things. I should always listen to the little voice. The little voice is always right about everything.”

“How is it,” the little voice asks, “that you can so readily admit that I'm always right, yet you constantly choose to ignore me?”

“You stay out of this,” I blurt.

“What?” The Dreaded One asks.

“I was talking to the little voice.”

In the end we drive for almost an hour inland to a much larger town where there is more chance of finding accommodation because these shitty little towns along the main route are, well, shitty little towns. This town turns out to be a shitty big town, but it's late and at least there is a hotel room, beer, pizza and telly.

Will I listen to the little voice next time? Probably not.

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). He suspects he will never learn.

Like A Doctor's Waiting Room In Here... or What Would Hiro Protagonist Do In A Situation Like This?

A couple of random shots of our new Melbourne home. The top one is our all new Coffee Table Of Adventures. Each compartment contains a memento with a story behind it... although one or two of them, the story seems to have been forgotten. We're, like, what was the story behind the sweets again? I dunno - I thought that was one of yours.

Anyway, all settled in. Feels like home. And the sunsets from this place... seriously, on a clear day (and there have been many) they are just stunning.

Below is the next Grumpy column for Tsunami.

GRUMPY

I had to go to the eye specialist recently. I arrived at 9.30am thinking cool, I must have the first appointment. However there were already four patients waiting. Not so cool.

Worse was that when I checked my bag I realised I had forgotten the book I am writing as well as the one I am reading. I'm reading Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson. Action sci-fi goodness with lines like, "When the Deliverator puts the hammer down, shit happens." The Deliverator – AKA Hiro Protagonist – is a kick arse dude who wields a meaner Samurai sword than Uma Thurman in Kill Bill.

Noticing the lack of magazines on offer (I guess they thought there was no point offering reading material to a waiting room full of the vision-impaired), I pulled out the only reading material I had, which was a local theatre season guide, which I dragged out for 10 minutes, thinking, it's like a waiting room in here.

In that 10 minutes, the waiting room filled. People with eye problems slowly filed in and I realised they simply book everyone in at 9.30 and work through us one at a time.

And these people were old. I remembered this from the last time I was at an eye specialist... I was the youngest person in the room, and I didn't feel good about it.

I really wanted to be reading about the metaverse and Hiro Protagonist and Y.T and The Rat Thing and The Raven and... this was going to be painful.

The old dear sitting next to me piped up and said something about the thing the woman opposite was knitting. She was knitting a cardigan for her granddaughter.

"It's a lovely pattern. And a lovely colour. Where did you get the wool?"

Oh God.

"Bendigo Knitting Mill."

Spare me.

"Ooh I get my wool from Bendigo Knitting Mill!"

What would Hiro Protagonist do in a situation like this?

"Wish I'd brought my knitting," says one of the others. "Help pass the time."

So would suicide.

"Is she your only granddaughter?"

The knitter is amused by this. "No. I have seven granddaughters..."

The others are impressed.

"And 13 grandsons."

Suddenly the room is filled with talk of offspring and knitting patterns and the exact shades of the wool and where everyone originally came from (the Australian accents are way out-numbered) and suddenly the weirdest thing happens. I find myself thinking to hell with my sci-fi novel - this is fucking beautiful. The other men in the room sit silently through it all, while I sit there smirking in appreciation. It's actually, really, very cool. It is making me feel warm and fuzzy.

I'm there for a couple of hours, in and out of rooms for various tests, occasionally having to wait again and everyone just seems to have gotten to know each other better with each passing minute. Some of them, as they leave, they say goodbye to these people who were strangers just a short time ago. They're on first name basis now as they wave goodbye on their way to the next specialist's appointment, and I'm just a bit blown away by how nice everyone is to each other, how all these lives from far-flung places have come together and bothered to get to know each other in this shitty little waiting room in this corner of planet Earth.

I don't know. Sometimes nice is just, well, nice, I think as I walk home with my smile and my squint and my stupidly dilated pupils. I even think Hiro Protagonist would have got the warm and fuzzies.

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose (leebemrose@hotmail.com). He quite likes that stuff they put in your eyes to make the pupils go big.

Neighbours... Everyone Needs Good Neighbours...

If you scroll down a few posts you'll find a Grumpy column in which I asked the universe to bless me with a few nice neighbours to play with in our nice new home. Well, I didn't get Cameron Diaz or Angelina Jolie or even Stewie from Family Guy.

The buzzer rang one day last week. It's one of those video jobs for extra security. On the little television screen was a man who appeared to be eating something from a paper bag.

"Hello?" I said.

"Hello."

"Yes?"

"Hi. I live in 501 on the same floor as you and I've locked myself out. Would you mind buzzing me in?"

I don't think I had seen him before but he seemed genuine, slight sheepish tone in his voice, so I buzzed him in and went back to whatever it was I was doing. After a couple of minutes I wondered how much help that had been to him because you need your swip key to get up in the elevator. Poor bastard was still stuck downstairs in the lobby.

I went to let him up but heard rustling paper in the hallway. I took a look and sure enough he had somehow made it up to the 5th floor and was sitting outside 501 munching on a piece of chicken. He wasn't wearing any shoes. I asked if he wanted to wait inside our place until someone came home and he was very appreciative. He went to shake my hand but it was covered in chicken juice. He washed his hands, accepted the offer of a beer and explained that he had just wandered out for a piece of chicken and forgotten to take his keys, and his partner ("a punk nurse") wouldn't be home for another hour.

Three beers and two hours later - with an ammended note taped to his door explaining where he was - there was a knock at the door and his punk nurse partner came in and seemed a bit bemused by this way of getting to know the neighbours. Something about the way she reacted to him being here without his shoes made me think it's the sort of thing he might do rather often. She also pointed out that he had left his phone inside as well.

So far from Hollywood sex bombs, the universe has given me a stoner as my first neighbour. A very appreciative one who couldn't stop saying that he thought The Dreaded One and I were lovely people.

At least after the third beer was opened he gave up on his plan to climb around the balcony and make his way to his apartment.

Grumpy, The Universe And Everything.

Grumpy

I don't know whether it's a new thing or if I have just been made aware of it, but people seem to be getting into this ask The Universe thing quite a lot. You want something, you ask The Universe to give it to you and you visualise yourself having this thing. You don't apply for a job and then hope you are going to get it, you assume the job is already yours and The Universe will deliver. It's a nice belief, if hopelessly flawed; what if two people apply for the same job and both are into this ask The Universe thing?

I'm also reluctant to get into it because I've just come back from a trip around the world, and in the six months I was away nothing went wrong. No flight delays, no lost luggage, no illness, no natural disasters. Far from asking the universe for anything, I'm happy enough to just thank it for being so nice to me.

House-hunting has been a bit of a nightmare, though, and when finally The Dreaded One and I found a place that we really wanted, I thought maybe I would ask The Universe after all. This was a very nice apartment and we had already missed out on a couple due to a very competitive rental market.

Weirdly, there were signs that this might be our new home. In scouting around the area the first shop we came across was a doof shop, selling doof clothing, psychedelic artwork and music. As you may or may not know, I heart doof. In the music section I found a couple of psytrance albums by friends of mine, albums that I hadn't seen before, so I bought them. Playing in the shop was a familiar track by a producer called Lost Keys. Lost keys? Was The Universe telling us we had found the keys to our new home? And The Dreaded One pointed out that the name of the apartment block was Acacia Apartments. The Acacia plant is a rich source of, erm, vitamin DMT, which is one of my favourite vitamins. Maybe the universe was delivering. God bless you, Universe, you noble and generous great big thing.

We visualised and assumed, even if there was a niggly voice telling me it didn't really work like this.

The phone rang. It was another real estate agent returning our call to set up an inspection time for another apartment. Was this The Universe telling us not to get our hopes up? That all the signs for the place we really wanted were part of an elaborate joke? Fuck you, Universe, you hostile son of a bi-

The phone again. It was the good real estate agent telling us that our application had been approved. The place we wanted was ours. Seriously – it worked! We asked The Universe and it delivered. Holy shit. Magic happens. For real. Oh Universe you kind, wonderful great big thing.

We waited for two days for an email confirmation that was supposed to be sent immediately. Nothing. Universe you prick-teasing whore of a great big thing... no one likes a smart arsed universe, Universe. Just go and poke your head back up your bum. I hate...

A phone call revealed that the real estate agent had been waiting to hear from us. After double-checking the email address we all realised there had been a simple typo in the way of getting things done. Oh Universe – come over here and give us a hug, you big hunk of a great big thing.

I don't want to push the friendship, but I'm currently thinking about my new neighbours. I am visualising Cameron Diaz... Angelina Jolie (sans Bradley and kids)... um... Shakira? Yeah, why not... ooh and Stewie from Family Guy, he would be a cack to hang out with. Who else...

Grumpy is freelance writer Lee Bemrose, leebemrose@hotmail.com. He is looking forward very much to meeting the new neighbours The Universe has given him to play with.

HomeHunting Part 27

Northcote is back on the list, an area called Ruckers Hill. We saw a place today that is unbelievably cool. Brand new, district and city views from the fifth floor. Checked the area out and the first shop we came across was a doof shop called The Pixie Collective. They were playing a very familiar Lost Keys track. Lost Keys? Found Keys? They stocked copies of Daheen's Green Chillies album and Regen Records' Regeneration, which we bought. These guys are friends from Sydney and we hadn't seen the albums before. The Dreaded One also pointed out that the apartment block is called Acacia Apartments, Acacia, of course, being a rich source of Vitamin DMT.

I'm still not going to get excited about the possibility of getting this place (except that I already am, a little bit), but the signs are certainly being friendly. I asked the girl in The Pixie Collective if there are many doofer types in the area and she said yes and talked about the parties and the fact they have a renegade stage at tomorrow's St Kilda Festival.

We had a bite to eat and some good coffee at Ruckers Hill Cafe. Good vibe, owners (I assume) were really friendly. The area doesn't have the sceney look that Fitzroy does, but it does have its own cool. We both like it and can se ourselves living there. It's 7km out of the city, but that's okay. The apartment itself would be such a step up from our old one and our things will look great there. We'll keep looking in the meantime.

In other news, I almost walked out of a booze shop today with a case of low alcohol beer. I squealed like a girl and put that damn stuff back. Close call.

*Update - the above happened on Saturday. On Monday we got a call. The signs were accurate. Our application was approved.

Hostile Universe? Not Always.

So. Here we are in Melbourne (not the two knuckleheads in the picture, The Dreaded One and me). Been here a couple of weeks now but still don't have a home. We're staying in a serviced apartment while looking around and there is much confusion. We always felt we'd live in or around Fitzroy but it seems a million other people also want to live in or around Fitzroy. You can find a place you like and can see yourself living in, but you have to get that application in quickly and pay them what they want. I suspect people are offering more than the asking rental or even bribing the property managers. The latter makes perfect sense - slip them a couple of hundred bucks upfront to get you the place. Maybe that's being too cynical. Maybe it makes perfect sense. I don't know.

I do know that Fitzroy is starting to lose its appeal. We've looked at a lot of areas now and it's very confusing. Everything has shifted. Now the shortlist is Melbourne CBD, Brunswick, Brunswick East or... I don't know. A really lovely real estate agent (yeah they do exist) yesterday recommended Brunswick. She seemed to have us pegged. Mentioned music gigs etc, so I've read up about it and it sounds appealing so we'll drive over there today and wander about for a bit, soak up the vibe.

We also threw into the mess of what we are doing right now the possibility of going back overseas. I can't express what a perfect trip that was. Nothing went wrong, everything went right. The universe really delivered. When we were in Madrid and had to buy a tent for Boom, we couldn't find a place that sold tents. They just didn't exist. One day to go, we got hopelessly lost and stumbled upon a place that sold tents. The 'salesperson' has achieved legendary status for us - she was pure hate. We asked if we could look at a tent (it was, after all, a tienda specialising in tiendas) and she screeched at us, "No tienda!" We asked if we could look at one of the tiendas hanging on the wall and she insisted, "NO TIENDA!" We politely insisted that one of the display tiendas would be fine and with some Spanish cursing and a roll of the shoulders she stormed of, got our tienda from the back room, stomped her way back in, threw the tent onto the counter and told one of her minions to sort us out. Hilarious WTF moment.

Point is, we got lost and wouldn't have found the tent shop otherwise. Sometimes, stuff happens for a reason. This was merely one of countless incidents that made me feel like the universe was not hostile at all but was actually being rather nice. Things just fell nicely into place when we were traveling.

I'm not complaining about having trouble finding our home in Melbourne. I think after such a charmed trip we probably assumed we'd just walk into our new home. Thinking about it, I'm not surprised it's a bit of a shitfight. We've had a dream run. We have to put in a bit of effort now and that's cool and maybe the universe knows what it's doing. We'll still look at Fitzroy this coming Saturday, but there was something about that real estate agent and her recommendation. There was a vibe, like she knew something. We shared a laugh and she gave us some of her time and both The Dreaded One and I thought there was a vibe. We'll see how this pans out.

The other thing about the universe is the friends I have at the moment. The picture above? One of my favourites. What you see there is a picture of damn near perfect friendship. It's ridiculous to think those two people met at all, let alone became such solid friends. There is no clash of ego, no struggle for dominance, no bullshit of any kind. There is just acceptance of this other human who for whatever reason is cool in the eyes of the other. It's a beautiful thing.

And I have a few precious people in my life right now. Some I've spent a lot of time with, some only a short time but knew then that there was a vibe. Solitary guy doesn't feel quite so solitary anymore. He feels very grateful.

In other news, my new phone is waaay to smart for me. It's doing my little tiny head in.

What's Right With This Picture?

A secret special prize goes to the person who comes up with the best explanation for what the hell is going on in this picture. I mean, what is that expression all about? Why are the tins of minted peas and a little bag of lollies wrapped in cellophane? And check those girly purple mittens. Why is it happening on a Melbourne tram? What the hell is going on?

Any suggestions?

Melbourne Memories

The days were long and sometimes lonely, but it was a pleasant kind of loneliness. Perhaps loneliness is not the right word at all... aloneness. Sometimes I wondered what I was doing there at all.

But the nights, short as they were, brimmed with laughter and good times. Countless funny little episodes as we gazed at the wonderful weirdness that is Dali, huddled laughing in a tiny theatre, or sunk into a couch in a bar and laughed at the antics of fellow drinkdancers.

On those short nights, I didn't wonder, was just glad that I was there at all.