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.
Friday, November 03, 2006
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.
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
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
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
The Naked Chef
Speaking of chefs... what is this thing all about where they call each other "Chef"? Seriously. Because I have been masquerading as a chef as opposed to actually being one I assumed the first time someone called me "chef" they were taking the piss. Like they had seen my inner smirk at wearing a chef outfit when I am as much a chef as I am a fighter pilot.
However I quickly realised that this is simply what they call each other. You can have five chefs in a kitchen and someone says "Hey chef" and five chefs get whiplash. What is going on?
I've been a tradesman and I know it doesn't happen there. Imagine it:
"Hey Plumber. How are you?"
"Yeah good, Plumber, real good. Hey look - bloody Bricklayer's late again."
Etc.
I basically bailed on the Opera House gig because the new team moved in quick and fast and I know I can't get away with this any longer. I'm going for a part time job as a barista at a pretty cool sounding organic cafe tomorrow. I used to be pretty good at banging out quality coffee, so I'm hoping it all comes back to me.
Thing is, I now have another 14 hour shift at the Opera House with the new guys. I'll do that day, but I'm going to have to tell them that I'm a freelance writer who doesn't make enough money from writing alone. Happy to work there, I just don't want anyone to call me chef.
Which means taking off my chef outfit.
Which means cooking in the nude.
Hmm.
A Small, Good Thing
Do you remember that feeling when you were a kid when you won a prize for something? A writing thing or a class captain thing or maybe you just ran faster than the other kids when no 0ne was really expecting you to. No? Then maybe you remember what it was like when word got back to you that the girl you fancied thought you were hot too and you thought holy fuck - me? She likes me? At some point, you've had that ten-foot-tall feeling.
I had that feeling today, only the twist was that I was feeling it for The Dreaded One. She totally won today and it was because of good and right things.
She works in the kitchen of a Sydney icon. The guy above her was a fuckwit. A really awful person. Kind of guy who when travelling waiters had trouble with speaking English, he would ridicule them even though they were doing the right thing and were trying to help. Kind of guy whose presentation of food was utterly shit but who always criticised the way you arranged stuff. Kind of "chef" who liked to oversee things but would never cook. Because he couldn't. He was a malicious twat. A passive aggressive blob.
Celeb chef took over today. Axe fell. New people seem like quality people. They ditched blob, which was so obviously going to happen. But blob called The Dreaded One and told her that she had cause to worry as well. Jesus - is that being the last dickhead standing or just being delusional? It's delusional. He is a lonely and sad man.
These new people who seem to be no bullshit people want The Dreaded One to stay on. They really want her. They recognised and acknowledged integrity and decency and the hard work she put in.
Sometimes the good guys win. I'm so fucking happy about this. Really happy that this good thing happened to her.
PS - I'm really a little bit drunk right now.
I had that feeling today, only the twist was that I was feeling it for The Dreaded One. She totally won today and it was because of good and right things.
She works in the kitchen of a Sydney icon. The guy above her was a fuckwit. A really awful person. Kind of guy who when travelling waiters had trouble with speaking English, he would ridicule them even though they were doing the right thing and were trying to help. Kind of guy whose presentation of food was utterly shit but who always criticised the way you arranged stuff. Kind of "chef" who liked to oversee things but would never cook. Because he couldn't. He was a malicious twat. A passive aggressive blob.
Celeb chef took over today. Axe fell. New people seem like quality people. They ditched blob, which was so obviously going to happen. But blob called The Dreaded One and told her that she had cause to worry as well. Jesus - is that being the last dickhead standing or just being delusional? It's delusional. He is a lonely and sad man.
These new people who seem to be no bullshit people want The Dreaded One to stay on. They really want her. They recognised and acknowledged integrity and decency and the hard work she put in.
Sometimes the good guys win. I'm so fucking happy about this. Really happy that this good thing happened to her.
PS - I'm really a little bit drunk right now.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Welcome To Wonderland
I'm reviewing a new DVD called Welcome To Wonderland. Double disc, one a documentary, the other a CD. It really captures the true spirit of what outdoor parties are all about. I've never been to a Melbourne doof (Earthcore aside, but I don't really count that as a psytrance party) and yet it felt like watching a home movie. I recognised these people. I've smiled that smile, danced that dance. It totally nails it when it comes to what happens to you, if you're a certain kind of person, when you experience your first doof. There is no going back to the club scene because nothing will ever compare to dancing in the open air in the bush, pristine setting, pristine sound, awesome freaks.
For me, in hindsight, the club scene was a stepping stone. I wanted to be on the dancefloor and be lost to the music. I had friends who went to clubs to sit somewhere and talk, and occasionally that was good, but overall I wanted music that reached in and took hold of me. I wanted to be out there, surrounded but alone. Some nights worked, when the trance was dark and hard, or the house was dirty and tribal, but it was hit and miss. When it was hit, I didn't want to stop. Some people go to clubs for the sex or the drugs, others really are there for the music.
As I'm typing I'm listening to the audio CD. It's best described as organic, tribal trance. Again, it taps into something primal, drawing on a variety of traditional ethnic sounds - didgeridoo follows Middle Eastern vocals or American Indian chanting, for example - in a way that makes you want to get the fuck out of the city and be in a field somewhere, face turned to the sun giving thanks for music and dance.
Doofers who watch Welcome To Wonderland are going to recognise it. They're going to see themselves and people they know, even if they have never met them. But I also want my non-doofing friends to watch it. They're never going to take that two or 10 hour drive, get lost, look for the ribbons tied to trees in the middle of nowhere. They're never going to experience that slightly comical feeling of relief when a random convoy of cars forms and everyone assumes the one in front knows the way. They're never going to experience that pure sound quality, feel those hugs, drink in those smiles as you stomp on the dusty dancefloor, surrounded but alone with the thumping beat and twisted melody. They're never going to have these friends who don't base a person's worth on their age or the job they do but on how much they let the music take hold of them. They're just never going to experience any of this, and this is why I want them to see this documentary.
Do ya get the impression that I want to be at a doof?
For me, in hindsight, the club scene was a stepping stone. I wanted to be on the dancefloor and be lost to the music. I had friends who went to clubs to sit somewhere and talk, and occasionally that was good, but overall I wanted music that reached in and took hold of me. I wanted to be out there, surrounded but alone. Some nights worked, when the trance was dark and hard, or the house was dirty and tribal, but it was hit and miss. When it was hit, I didn't want to stop. Some people go to clubs for the sex or the drugs, others really are there for the music.
As I'm typing I'm listening to the audio CD. It's best described as organic, tribal trance. Again, it taps into something primal, drawing on a variety of traditional ethnic sounds - didgeridoo follows Middle Eastern vocals or American Indian chanting, for example - in a way that makes you want to get the fuck out of the city and be in a field somewhere, face turned to the sun giving thanks for music and dance.
Doofers who watch Welcome To Wonderland are going to recognise it. They're going to see themselves and people they know, even if they have never met them. But I also want my non-doofing friends to watch it. They're never going to take that two or 10 hour drive, get lost, look for the ribbons tied to trees in the middle of nowhere. They're never going to experience that slightly comical feeling of relief when a random convoy of cars forms and everyone assumes the one in front knows the way. They're never going to experience that pure sound quality, feel those hugs, drink in those smiles as you stomp on the dusty dancefloor, surrounded but alone with the thumping beat and twisted melody. They're never going to have these friends who don't base a person's worth on their age or the job they do but on how much they let the music take hold of them. They're just never going to experience any of this, and this is why I want them to see this documentary.
Do ya get the impression that I want to be at a doof?
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Meet Debz... or: The King & I.
I accidentally... oh the details are unclear, but I'm pretty sure they said king, but typically I was looking at the canapes or something, but The Dreaded One says they said king, so king it is.
Anyway, was going to write it and then chatted to a friend about it and so I've cut and pasted the conversation here. Once you get past the bits about decks and bogeys you'll get to the king bit. And it's a bit funny.
debz says: ah-hem
Grumpy says: hmmmm?
debz says: I'VE GOT A BEDROOOM WOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Grumpy says: woo hoo.
Grumpy says: !
Grumpy says: !!
debz says: and i got my technics on the weekend
debz says: WOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Grumpy says: coowool.
debz says: and and playing at a club this weeekend
debz says: oh and how you doing?
Grumpy says: coowooler still.
debz says: i have a bogey
Grumpy says: (that was in reference to you playing at a club, not at how am I)
debz says: ooh why not?
debz says: you could be cowlicker if you want
Grumpy says: because I am not coowooler than having a bedroom, having decks and playing in a club on the weekend
debz says: why not? what are you donig/having?
Grumpy says: well this was cool... last night went to theatre to review it. On the way out of the Opera House afterwards, I saw a free drinks thing set up and although they hadn't given me an invitation, I TOTALLY assumed I was invited.
debz says: hahaha excellent. and you got the free drinks?
Grumpy says: Ann said I dunno, you weren't given an actual invitation. I said so what, I'm always invited to these things, and I swanned on inside. "Look, there's food," I said to Ann. "Have food. And here - have some champagne too." I really settled in with all these dollied up theatre types.
debz says: and then and then and then
Grumpy says: Then there was a speech, which is a little unusual for a theatre opening night. It was the CEO of The Opera House who introduced the host of the soiree, who was...
Grumpy says: The King Of Norway.
debz says: haaaaaaaaaaahahhahahaaa you funny
Grumpy says: I went a bit sweaty and was less confident that I was invited than before.
debz says: and then and then
Grumpy says: Well that was it. I mean, the King of fucking Norway. And me drinking his booze and acting like I knew what the fuck was going on.
debz says: hahaha you're funny
debz says: hahaha nice - was it good food and drinks?
Grumpy says: It was good. And I'm pretty sure the Opera House people just forgot to give me my invitation... I think.
debz says: of course they did
debz says: you should write a letter of complaint. See what other free things you get
Grumpy says: Yes. Like a reindeer. Reindeers come from Norway don't they? I want a reindeer.
debz says: i want one too! arrange it please
Grumpy says: And an iceberg.
debz says: with no yellow snow
Grumpy says: "Dear King Harald of Norway, You probably don't remember me, but you owe me two reindeers and one iceberg, then I shall let the matter drop. Yours sincerely, Grumpy."
Grumpy says: "PS Thanks for the drinks and the sushi."
debz says: hahaha i like it
Anyway, was going to write it and then chatted to a friend about it and so I've cut and pasted the conversation here. Once you get past the bits about decks and bogeys you'll get to the king bit. And it's a bit funny.
debz says: ah-hem
Grumpy says: hmmmm?
debz says: I'VE GOT A BEDROOOM WOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Grumpy says: woo hoo.
Grumpy says: !
Grumpy says: !!
debz says: and i got my technics on the weekend
debz says: WOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Grumpy says: coowool.
debz says: and and playing at a club this weeekend
debz says: oh and how you doing?
Grumpy says: coowooler still.
debz says: i have a bogey
Grumpy says: (that was in reference to you playing at a club, not at how am I)
debz says: ooh why not?
debz says: you could be cowlicker if you want
Grumpy says: because I am not coowooler than having a bedroom, having decks and playing in a club on the weekend
debz says: why not? what are you donig/having?
Grumpy says: well this was cool... last night went to theatre to review it. On the way out of the Opera House afterwards, I saw a free drinks thing set up and although they hadn't given me an invitation, I TOTALLY assumed I was invited.
debz says: hahaha excellent. and you got the free drinks?
Grumpy says: Ann said I dunno, you weren't given an actual invitation. I said so what, I'm always invited to these things, and I swanned on inside. "Look, there's food," I said to Ann. "Have food. And here - have some champagne too." I really settled in with all these dollied up theatre types.
debz says: and then and then and then
Grumpy says: Then there was a speech, which is a little unusual for a theatre opening night. It was the CEO of The Opera House who introduced the host of the soiree, who was...
Grumpy says: The King Of Norway.
debz says: haaaaaaaaaaahahhahahaaa you funny
Grumpy says: I went a bit sweaty and was less confident that I was invited than before.
debz says: and then and then
Grumpy says: Well that was it. I mean, the King of fucking Norway. And me drinking his booze and acting like I knew what the fuck was going on.
debz says: hahaha you're funny
debz says: hahaha nice - was it good food and drinks?
Grumpy says: It was good. And I'm pretty sure the Opera House people just forgot to give me my invitation... I think.
debz says: of course they did
debz says: you should write a letter of complaint. See what other free things you get
Grumpy says: Yes. Like a reindeer. Reindeers come from Norway don't they? I want a reindeer.
debz says: i want one too! arrange it please
Grumpy says: And an iceberg.
debz says: with no yellow snow
Grumpy says: "Dear King Harald of Norway, You probably don't remember me, but you owe me two reindeers and one iceberg, then I shall let the matter drop. Yours sincerely, Grumpy."
Grumpy says: "PS Thanks for the drinks and the sushi."
debz says: hahaha i like it
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
The Smell oF ear Pt II
So I got an invite to the Gala Launch of the Fringe Comedy Festival I wrote about two posts down. Met the orgniser who was the MC for the night. Seems like a good person as I thought. Chatted. Dreaded One and I took seats, she choosing seats that I felt were a little too exposed and close to the stage. The MC started her opener, thanking various people involved in proceedings so far, paused for a breath... then said something like, “And we also have in the audience one Quick who wrote a story about the festival which was pretty shit...” Everyone laughed, but I was thinking hang on hang on... there was a little banter back and forth in which I tried to defend myself. More laughter, all good. Kind of.
First comedian came up and took his cue from the MC and focused the first bit of his act on me. We all laughed because isn’t it funny to see someone squirm under the white hot glare of unwanted spotlight.
MC did a comic act that wasn’t quite working and muttered at one point, indicating to me, “Shit it’s intimidating having you in the front row.” Yessss! Me, Man In Black from the media was intimidating her. Next comic left me alone. Guy after him was dragged up on stage and also left me alone (although he had had a go at me - in a good natured way - from the audience) and told a really lame joke in hilarious style. Think he’s an amateur who really has got something. Very funny.
There was an intermission and as I passed the MC she laughed that she was sorry to have brought me into it. I said, “No worries. I am writing a review for the next issue. You knew that yes?”
During intermission MC came over and asked, “Are you really reviewing this? Because it’s shit.” I said no, smirked, let her sweat.
After intermission they got the audience to applaud and say YAY! As the MC took the stage. As she passed, I gave her a lone booh! On stage she said “Ooh – Drum Man says booh while everyone is saying yay.” More laughs.
Next comedian also singled me out a few times, at one point coming down off stage to croon some silly love song at me. Closing comedian also referred to me a couple of times, seeming a little pleased at one point and declaring that, “Hey – I got a smile out of Drum Man.” She also said that she really liked my story.
At the end we all mingled briefly. There was more laughter because it had all been pretty funny, and a couple of flat parts aside, there was some serious talent at work during the night. Someone else asked if I was reviewing, I said I wasn’t intending to but I might now, and I got the impression that maybe they were a little concerned.
They needn’t be. I like these people and my only regret with it is that a couple of my comebacks could have been funnier. I just wasn’t expecting any of it to happen. It was a good night and I wish the festival well. Humble beginnings, but from little things big things grow.
Anyone reading this who lives in Sydney should check The Sydney Fringe Comedy, Art & Film Festival. There’s going to be some quality acts to be enjoyed.
Now I have to write my Grumpy column through the haze of a stress headache after having a shouty altercation with some shoplifters in my shop. These arseholes think they have every right to help themselves to our store and don’t get that if I want them out, they have to leave. They put up such an aggressive argument, telling me to fuck off and glaring at me and spitting on the ground as they left. Excuse me for trying to run an honest business. I'm expecting more trouble. Police have been called. I hate this kind of shit.
So I gotta come up with some funny. Deadline first thing tomorrow. Bleh.
First comedian came up and took his cue from the MC and focused the first bit of his act on me. We all laughed because isn’t it funny to see someone squirm under the white hot glare of unwanted spotlight.
MC did a comic act that wasn’t quite working and muttered at one point, indicating to me, “Shit it’s intimidating having you in the front row.” Yessss! Me, Man In Black from the media was intimidating her. Next comic left me alone. Guy after him was dragged up on stage and also left me alone (although he had had a go at me - in a good natured way - from the audience) and told a really lame joke in hilarious style. Think he’s an amateur who really has got something. Very funny.
There was an intermission and as I passed the MC she laughed that she was sorry to have brought me into it. I said, “No worries. I am writing a review for the next issue. You knew that yes?”
During intermission MC came over and asked, “Are you really reviewing this? Because it’s shit.” I said no, smirked, let her sweat.
After intermission they got the audience to applaud and say YAY! As the MC took the stage. As she passed, I gave her a lone booh! On stage she said “Ooh – Drum Man says booh while everyone is saying yay.” More laughs.
Next comedian also singled me out a few times, at one point coming down off stage to croon some silly love song at me. Closing comedian also referred to me a couple of times, seeming a little pleased at one point and declaring that, “Hey – I got a smile out of Drum Man.” She also said that she really liked my story.
At the end we all mingled briefly. There was more laughter because it had all been pretty funny, and a couple of flat parts aside, there was some serious talent at work during the night. Someone else asked if I was reviewing, I said I wasn’t intending to but I might now, and I got the impression that maybe they were a little concerned.
They needn’t be. I like these people and my only regret with it is that a couple of my comebacks could have been funnier. I just wasn’t expecting any of it to happen. It was a good night and I wish the festival well. Humble beginnings, but from little things big things grow.
Anyone reading this who lives in Sydney should check The Sydney Fringe Comedy, Art & Film Festival. There’s going to be some quality acts to be enjoyed.
Now I have to write my Grumpy column through the haze of a stress headache after having a shouty altercation with some shoplifters in my shop. These arseholes think they have every right to help themselves to our store and don’t get that if I want them out, they have to leave. They put up such an aggressive argument, telling me to fuck off and glaring at me and spitting on the ground as they left. Excuse me for trying to run an honest business. I'm expecting more trouble. Police have been called. I hate this kind of shit.
So I gotta come up with some funny. Deadline first thing tomorrow. Bleh.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Caught Out
Sometimes when you're out dancing, you might check out a few fellow dancers. Sometimes you get quite fixated on them, might even smile, might even talk to them at some point. You might even flirt a little even though you're in a relationship because the fun of innocent flirting never quite goes away.Maybe it's the way they move their hips, or the way they smile as they dance, eyes closed, lost to the music. They might become a friend, they might become someone you smile at and say hello to whenever you see them. Maybe you'll never see them again.
But sometimes you might just get caught out checking out your own partner.
Monday, October 16, 2006
The Smell oF ear
I had to interview someone who was organising a new comedy festival. She wasn't answering her phone. After two days and with deadline rapidly approaching she finally called back early in the morning. I said I'd call back in 30 minutes. Needed to wake up. When I did call back she said she'd rather answer the email questions I had sent instead. That was fine with me too. In the end she answered four of the email questions and told me to call her if I wanted to ask any more questions.
I was a little grumpy because the story was more use to her than me; did she want the exposure or not? Started to write a snippy email... then sat and thought for a bit and decided to take a different approach. The result is below.
WORD ON THE STREET WAS THAT THERE WAS A NEW COMEDY FESTIVAL IN TOWN. THE SYDNEY FRINGE COMEDY, ART AND FILM FESTIVAL WASN’T RINGING ANY BELLS, PROBABLY BECAUSE IT HAD A CLEAN HISTORY. SO CLEAN IT DIDN’T EXIST. EITHER THAT OR IT WAS JUST GOOD AT COVERING ITS TRACKS. LEE BEMROSE WONDERED WHAT IT WAS TRYING TO HIDE.
SYDNEY’S SECRET COMEDY FESTIVAL
I checked out the festival website. Like the festival itself, it wasn’t giving much away, which made me even more suspicious. Sure, there was an extensive program of events including stand up acts at venues like The Sandringham, The Bar Me Jazz Cellar, Newtown Theatre, The Clarence Hotel, The Eastern Hotel and more... this festival sure was going to get around. And okay, there was also an extensive list of dates and venues for live acts and film screenings, and deadline details for entries to a short film festival, the lowdown on a stand up comedy course run by one of the country’s most respected comedians.
So basically the website told me everything I wanted to know about the festival. But it wasn’t enough. Through the blood-red blur of a hangover, I decided to try my only lead. Adrian Moxham’s name kept coming up, and I had a sneaking suspicion this guy was a key player, an oily cog that kept this whole undercover comedy machine purring like a finely tuned Blue Persian.
I would have dialed the guy’s number but there wasn’t a dial on my phone. So I punched his number in instead... except I had eventually learned my lesson about punching phone numbers into phones, so when it comes down to it what I did was poke his number into my phone with my finger, which does lack a certain machismo.
Adrian’s phone rang. Except it wasn’t much of a ring, it was more of a trill, which also lacks machismo. In the end I got through to voice mail, and the voice that told me Adrian was busy definitely lacked machismo: Adrian Moxham, it turned out, was a babe. A dame. A skirt. I should have picked up on this when I read that her stage name was Suze Moxham.
I suaved a message down the line... except there was no line, just a kind of... great big gap. I hung up... that is I poked the button with my finger, and I waited. I waited for two whole days through the vermilion terrorism of a hangover. I left another message. I sent my interrogation via email. Nothing.
Eventually Foxy Moxy called to say she’d do a phoner. It was early. I was unprepared. I needed 30 minutes to down some coffee to quell the foaming white tsunami of my hangover. When I called back, she was evasive and said she’d answer the email questions instead of doing the phoner. I started to feel like a mouse being toyed with like that finely tuned Blue Russian I was talking about. Something didn’t feel right.
I hit the streets with a Sketch O Graph drawing of what I thought someone called Foxy Moxy would look like. Imagine my surprise when the very person I approached was none other than Foxy herself.
“Maam - have you seen this person?”
“Oh my God that looks just like me. Who are you?”
“I’m Lee Bem – “
Foxy made a break for it. I didn’t know what she was trying to hide, but I wasn’t in the mood for letting her get away now that I was so close, especially not through the canary-yellow horror of a hangover. Foxy ran. I chased. I crash tackled her to the ground. I told her I had questions. I demanded answers. I said something about that Blue Persian, which in hindsight didn’t really make much sense and probably undermined my credibility.
“For a start,” I shrieked... growled into her terrified face, “we already have two comedy festivals. Why do we need another one?”
“Cracker and Big Laugh are wonderful festivals,” Foxy fessed. “I had a show in the Cracker Festival this year. The main difference that Cracker and Big Laugh have more of an international mainstream focus and is exclusive with no open submissions. Next year, we’re going to have open submissions!”
Foxy cracked, spilled the beans, and in the end I decided I was going to keep a close eye on this new kid on the block.
WHAT: The Sydney Fringe Comedy, Art & Film Festival
WHEN & WHERE: 23 October – 6 November at various venues throughout Sydney. Check www.sydneyfringe.com for more info
Ends.
I didn't know how the mag or the festival organiser were going to take it. Made poohs in my pants all day because it was a very silly piece and I hadn't done a back up serious story. I thought it was pretty funny at the time of writing, but just wasn't sure anymore. I sent to the story to the organiser/comedian and hoped it was going to be taken in the right spirit.
Phone rang and it was the organiser. She giggled a little unsurely, corrected me on one detail, then asked if I was having a go at her. No no no, I said, then relieved, she cacked herself laughing. Really let go and had a good laugh. Apparently there were a couple of references in there that made her think I was friends with someone who knew her and they were having a pop at her through me. Had a really cool conversation, both laughed lots, she mentioned somethinig about me maybe writing for the festival website, maybe interviewing some international comedians.
Relieved? Oh yeah. Magazine liked it too. Ran as is.
Friday, October 13, 2006
A Light Massage Before The Show
We're standing on the steps outside the theatre at The Old Fitzroy. There's a flight of stairs down to the theatre and a little Asian kitchen just to the side that does a pretty good laksa. They've rung the bell for us to go in but the door hasn't been opened yet, so we all stand there in the cramped corridor waiting. The Dreaded One leans back against the wall and starts massaging her shouler blades against it, really grinds into it, half smile of pleasure on her face. She gets tight muscles from catering and she does this all the time. We look absently inside the busy kitchen then, and all the cooks suddenly start looking around in bewilderment because the lights are flashing and a dimmer one is going dark and bright and dark again. It looks pretty funny. No one knows what the hell is going on until the head cook comes out and says to The Dreaded One, "Can you please don't do that." She's been massaging her shoulder blades against the light switch panel.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Still Rolling
The intention last night was to walk to Darlinghurst (weirdly, Darlinghurst is half way to Potts Point, and Darlinghurst Theatre is in Potts Point... go figure) and catch a cab from there, but do you think there was a single friggin' cab going my way. How could there not be a single cab heading to Kings Cross? I ended up walking most of the way and almost having to break into a run to make it on time. Managed to flag a cab when I was almost there. Had to explain I was running late and that I would have just walked the $3.50 fare if I had the time. Didn't really know why I felt the need to explain this to the cab driver. He didn't care. I know this because he said "I don't care."
Anyway, everyone else was already going inside, I collected my ticket, ordered a glass of wine, went inside and found a good single seat. I didn't really feel like Mr Mysterious as much as Lonely Guy. I sipped my wine, put it on the floor, went to take another sip and then suddenly wondered if I hadn't fucked up. Can you take your drink inside here? Couldn't remember. Surely they would have said something at the door. Maybe they were too polite. Maybe they could see that I was flustered and in a hurry. I looked around at the well-lit audience (play was set in a boxing stadium, bright lights). No one seemed to be drinking. No one seemed to have brought wine in with them. Fuck. Was I going to look uncouth? Was I going to look like an alcoholic? Why did I care so much what all these strangers thought about me? Come to think of it, why did I even think they would think anything of me. Because some people care about such things. Maybe they knew you couldn't take your drinks in and they did the right thing. Was I seriously going to sit here and not drink my wine until intermission?
In the end I decided what the fuck. I drank my wine whenever the hell I felt like it, and if anyone was going to say anything I was just going to shrug and say, "Deal with it. It's just the way I roll."
Here's the review for anyone who's interested. And now I have to dash off to more theatre, this time at the newly refurbished Belvoir Street Theatre. At least The Dreaded One has the night off and we can go together. Meeting her there. Thinking about pretending we're strangers meeting for the first time... our eyes meet from across the room, a loaded smile, I move through the crowd oozing mystery, walking sexily, introduce myself smoothly. There is a spark of passion as she
Fuck. Running late.
BLUE EYES AND HEELS
As the theatre fills, our ears are caressed gently with the ethereal strains of Ave Maria before the serenity is shattered by a camp and crass video montage of World Championship Wrestling. Funny stuff – the glammest of glam rockers have got nothing on these prancing roid boys.
The very amusing first act of Toby Whithouse’s play sees the oily TV exec Duncan casting for his new project, the re-introduction of telly wrestling. Victor – The Count Of Monte Christo in his heyday – enters and dismays with his age. At 55 years old he is well past his use-by date and tragically stuck re-living his glory days. Personal assistant Emma appears to feel for the hapless Victor, and to us too there is a hint of something pathetic about him. When it is revealed that Victor is a good mate of the head of the production company, Duncan’s indifference towards the old has-been turns to false bonhomie, giving the old wrestler a glimmer of hope of another chance.
It’s all quite funny, and quite fun, but you sense that it’s all leading towards something a bit meatier, and into the second act we are given a big serving of Stuff To Think About – still with the humour (no matter how bitter) – no more than a dislocated arm’s length away.
On one level there is basic human decency to consider. Victor is stuck in the past and is pretty annoying, but at the same time he’s just an honest bloke trying to make his way and do the right thing. That he is willing to change his wrestling persona to The Fiddler (you won’t believe you can laugh so much at a pedophile joke, but laugh you will, I promise) speaks volumes about his vulnerability and the TV exec’s oblivion to it.
But on another level – and this is where I saw several audience members sit forward attentively – there is the question of the nature of television and who, exactly, is dictating what we are fed. Wrestling is the topic in what turns into a heated debate, but it’s also about b-grade drama, reality shows, current affairs shows and those idiotic late night quiz things. Why does it all exist? Who is to blame?
There are many memorable lines in this well-cast play. Switch off the television. Go see some real entertainment.
Until 28 October, Darlinghurst Theatre, Potts Point
Anyway, everyone else was already going inside, I collected my ticket, ordered a glass of wine, went inside and found a good single seat. I didn't really feel like Mr Mysterious as much as Lonely Guy. I sipped my wine, put it on the floor, went to take another sip and then suddenly wondered if I hadn't fucked up. Can you take your drink inside here? Couldn't remember. Surely they would have said something at the door. Maybe they were too polite. Maybe they could see that I was flustered and in a hurry. I looked around at the well-lit audience (play was set in a boxing stadium, bright lights). No one seemed to be drinking. No one seemed to have brought wine in with them. Fuck. Was I going to look uncouth? Was I going to look like an alcoholic? Why did I care so much what all these strangers thought about me? Come to think of it, why did I even think they would think anything of me. Because some people care about such things. Maybe they knew you couldn't take your drinks in and they did the right thing. Was I seriously going to sit here and not drink my wine until intermission?
In the end I decided what the fuck. I drank my wine whenever the hell I felt like it, and if anyone was going to say anything I was just going to shrug and say, "Deal with it. It's just the way I roll."
Here's the review for anyone who's interested. And now I have to dash off to more theatre, this time at the newly refurbished Belvoir Street Theatre. At least The Dreaded One has the night off and we can go together. Meeting her there. Thinking about pretending we're strangers meeting for the first time... our eyes meet from across the room, a loaded smile, I move through the crowd oozing mystery, walking sexily, introduce myself smoothly. There is a spark of passion as she
Fuck. Running late.
BLUE EYES AND HEELS
As the theatre fills, our ears are caressed gently with the ethereal strains of Ave Maria before the serenity is shattered by a camp and crass video montage of World Championship Wrestling. Funny stuff – the glammest of glam rockers have got nothing on these prancing roid boys.
The very amusing first act of Toby Whithouse’s play sees the oily TV exec Duncan casting for his new project, the re-introduction of telly wrestling. Victor – The Count Of Monte Christo in his heyday – enters and dismays with his age. At 55 years old he is well past his use-by date and tragically stuck re-living his glory days. Personal assistant Emma appears to feel for the hapless Victor, and to us too there is a hint of something pathetic about him. When it is revealed that Victor is a good mate of the head of the production company, Duncan’s indifference towards the old has-been turns to false bonhomie, giving the old wrestler a glimmer of hope of another chance.
It’s all quite funny, and quite fun, but you sense that it’s all leading towards something a bit meatier, and into the second act we are given a big serving of Stuff To Think About – still with the humour (no matter how bitter) – no more than a dislocated arm’s length away.
On one level there is basic human decency to consider. Victor is stuck in the past and is pretty annoying, but at the same time he’s just an honest bloke trying to make his way and do the right thing. That he is willing to change his wrestling persona to The Fiddler (you won’t believe you can laugh so much at a pedophile joke, but laugh you will, I promise) speaks volumes about his vulnerability and the TV exec’s oblivion to it.
But on another level – and this is where I saw several audience members sit forward attentively – there is the question of the nature of television and who, exactly, is dictating what we are fed. Wrestling is the topic in what turns into a heated debate, but it’s also about b-grade drama, reality shows, current affairs shows and those idiotic late night quiz things. Why does it all exist? Who is to blame?
There are many memorable lines in this well-cast play. Switch off the television. Go see some real entertainment.
Until 28 October, Darlinghurst Theatre, Potts Point
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Because That's How I Roll
I really need a play mate. The Dreaded One is working late again and I've been asked to review another play tonight. So I'm going alone. Again. *sigh*
I don't mind actually. When in the right mood, I kinda like it. You get to be mysterious, and as I may have mentioned, being mysterious is one of my favourite hobbies.
And I'm kind of hoping someone sees that I'm alone and asks why I go to the theatre alone, because I have the coolest answer to that. I just read this person explain that she does something a certain way "because that's how I roll."
How cool is that? Seriously. It comes with a built in aloof look, a James Dean shrug, the whole package. I can't wait to be asked why I do stuff the way I do it. I may even take up smoking so I can say my new favourite line through a haze of smoke.
Thank you Piehole.
I don't mind actually. When in the right mood, I kinda like it. You get to be mysterious, and as I may have mentioned, being mysterious is one of my favourite hobbies.
And I'm kind of hoping someone sees that I'm alone and asks why I go to the theatre alone, because I have the coolest answer to that. I just read this person explain that she does something a certain way "because that's how I roll."
How cool is that? Seriously. It comes with a built in aloof look, a James Dean shrug, the whole package. I can't wait to be asked why I do stuff the way I do it. I may even take up smoking so I can say my new favourite line through a haze of smoke.
Thank you Piehole.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Theatre Review
My latest theatre review for Drum. Good play.
OSAMA THE HERO
Written by the UK’s Dennis Kelly, Osama The Hero starts with the story of Gary, a student who views the world at a slightly different tangent than the rest of society. When asked to do a school assignment on someone he considers a true hero, he finds conventional leaders don’t quite fit the definition of ‘hero’. Leaders of the western world are corpulent suits who lunch and deliver speeches, he reasons, whereas the leader of Al Quaida is a hands-on fighter, an inspiration to millions and therefore a true hero.
The play is set in a housing estate in England. Bins keep exploding and garages burn. A brother and sister argue, the unemployed and slightly unhinged brother obsessively watches the goings on of the rest of the estate. He is appalled that the neighbor with the last undamaged garage has left his wife to have a fling with a schoolgirl. He decides that someone’s going to pay for all that is wrong, and a hostage is taken. There is brutality and violence as facades crack and true nature emerges.
The story then fragments and each of the characters – blood dripping unnoticed from their hands - tells a domestic story that appears to have happened in their past but sometime after the hostage incident (I could have this wrong – the characters may also be random characters with no connection to what has taken place previously), and these monologues are utterly captivating. There is music in the writing, a rhythm that indicates that the script alone would be well worth reading: monologues overlap, lines are looped, the randomness of life is laid bare.
I can still hear the escalating staccato riff that gave the hostage scene such sharp tension, the highlight in a quite excellent sound design. The stage setting was equally sparse and effective, and performances were universally mesmerizing - dramatic, heartfelt with deft flecks of dark humour.
The Rabble is a new national director’s collaboration, and they should feel proud of this disturbing, thought-provoking and thoroughly enjoyable production.
Until 28 October at The Old Fitzroy Theatre, Cnr Cathedral & Dowling Streets Woolloomooloo.
OSAMA THE HERO
Written by the UK’s Dennis Kelly, Osama The Hero starts with the story of Gary, a student who views the world at a slightly different tangent than the rest of society. When asked to do a school assignment on someone he considers a true hero, he finds conventional leaders don’t quite fit the definition of ‘hero’. Leaders of the western world are corpulent suits who lunch and deliver speeches, he reasons, whereas the leader of Al Quaida is a hands-on fighter, an inspiration to millions and therefore a true hero.
The play is set in a housing estate in England. Bins keep exploding and garages burn. A brother and sister argue, the unemployed and slightly unhinged brother obsessively watches the goings on of the rest of the estate. He is appalled that the neighbor with the last undamaged garage has left his wife to have a fling with a schoolgirl. He decides that someone’s going to pay for all that is wrong, and a hostage is taken. There is brutality and violence as facades crack and true nature emerges.
The story then fragments and each of the characters – blood dripping unnoticed from their hands - tells a domestic story that appears to have happened in their past but sometime after the hostage incident (I could have this wrong – the characters may also be random characters with no connection to what has taken place previously), and these monologues are utterly captivating. There is music in the writing, a rhythm that indicates that the script alone would be well worth reading: monologues overlap, lines are looped, the randomness of life is laid bare.
I can still hear the escalating staccato riff that gave the hostage scene such sharp tension, the highlight in a quite excellent sound design. The stage setting was equally sparse and effective, and performances were universally mesmerizing - dramatic, heartfelt with deft flecks of dark humour.
The Rabble is a new national director’s collaboration, and they should feel proud of this disturbing, thought-provoking and thoroughly enjoyable production.
Until 28 October at The Old Fitzroy Theatre, Cnr Cathedral & Dowling Streets Woolloomooloo.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Death
I think blogging might be killing my writing.
I was just driving through the city after dropping The Dreaded... oh fuck it. This blog's hardly anonymous anymore. I dropped Ann off at The Opera House and was driving back through the city thinking about how I've had this thing lately about appreciating every day. Every moment of every day. I want good stuff. Laughter, general happiness. Money would be fine, but fuck it, real happiness, you make that for free. Every moment really is precious because it really could be your last.
Lilly Tomlin was interviewed recently by Andrew Denton. She is a total babe in every sense of the word. Andrew asked her something along the lines of what she's learned as she's grown older, and she said something like, "You realise that life is more finite than it was."
Our lives have always been finite. There is a time and a place. We will cease to exist. But Lilly was right - I think as you get older and have the odd close call, you start to feel like you're living on borrowed time. You just get more intolerant of the shit that small minds throw at you. You get more selective with the friends you want around you. You try to make sure they're good people, and you try to return some goodness to them. You lose your way of course and you do clumsy things and make mistakes, but I think as you get older you focus a little more on not doing these things.
That line by Chuck Palahniuk - "This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time." That's it in a nutshell. It hits you occasionally when you're young, but you brush it aside because there's life to be lived. Why dwell on the fact that we're going to cease to be? It's how it has to be, but the closer the time comes, the more you realise there's real stuff you have to squeeze out of every day, out of every precious moment.
This is what I was thinking about after dropping Ann off at work. Sunny day in a shiny city. People out in their summer gear. There's a fountain I drive past in Hyde Park, Theseus slaying the Minotaur, turtles around the edge spouting water. I saw a derelict almost drown there once, one of those moments everyone who was there has probably forgotten about, but it stayed with me and I used it in a story. It was a moment that mean't something to me. Maybe it was one of those moments when the truth of life stared me straight in the eye. I stared back and remembered it, dressed it up and put it in a story. That's what I used to do. I'd see something, have a thought, make a story.
And now I'm sitting here and simply putting these unadorned thoughts down instead of making a story out of them.
This is why I think blogging is killing my writing.
I was just driving through the city after dropping The Dreaded... oh fuck it. This blog's hardly anonymous anymore. I dropped Ann off at The Opera House and was driving back through the city thinking about how I've had this thing lately about appreciating every day. Every moment of every day. I want good stuff. Laughter, general happiness. Money would be fine, but fuck it, real happiness, you make that for free. Every moment really is precious because it really could be your last.
Lilly Tomlin was interviewed recently by Andrew Denton. She is a total babe in every sense of the word. Andrew asked her something along the lines of what she's learned as she's grown older, and she said something like, "You realise that life is more finite than it was."
Our lives have always been finite. There is a time and a place. We will cease to exist. But Lilly was right - I think as you get older and have the odd close call, you start to feel like you're living on borrowed time. You just get more intolerant of the shit that small minds throw at you. You get more selective with the friends you want around you. You try to make sure they're good people, and you try to return some goodness to them. You lose your way of course and you do clumsy things and make mistakes, but I think as you get older you focus a little more on not doing these things.
That line by Chuck Palahniuk - "This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time." That's it in a nutshell. It hits you occasionally when you're young, but you brush it aside because there's life to be lived. Why dwell on the fact that we're going to cease to be? It's how it has to be, but the closer the time comes, the more you realise there's real stuff you have to squeeze out of every day, out of every precious moment.
This is what I was thinking about after dropping Ann off at work. Sunny day in a shiny city. People out in their summer gear. There's a fountain I drive past in Hyde Park, Theseus slaying the Minotaur, turtles around the edge spouting water. I saw a derelict almost drown there once, one of those moments everyone who was there has probably forgotten about, but it stayed with me and I used it in a story. It was a moment that mean't something to me. Maybe it was one of those moments when the truth of life stared me straight in the eye. I stared back and remembered it, dressed it up and put it in a story. That's what I used to do. I'd see something, have a thought, make a story.
And now I'm sitting here and simply putting these unadorned thoughts down instead of making a story out of them.
This is why I think blogging is killing my writing.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
The Saga Continues...
This toilet business has been a nightmare (see post below if this is your first time here). I can't believe I was once a tradesman who could do anything from stonemasonry to window repairs and minor electrical stuff and now I can't even put a goddamn toilet in. I had to take the damn thing apart AGAIN today because a seal was not working. I sussed out what the problem was, decided upon a solution and went back to the hardware store AGAIN. (I found a rather fetching utility belt that I want a lot).
Anyway, I had to saw a bit of pipe to fit better and I broke the blade of my brand new hacksaw. Incredible. Still, I was in no mood for defeat and used the stub of the saw to make the required cuts, went to work again and FINALLY things are looking good.
Now I have to go to a writer's meeting to meet the publisher of a mag I freelance for. Apparently there are changes afoot, new opportunities with the publishing company expanding, new rates to discuss, as well as the question of whether they will agree to give me a regular humorous column. I think they should. They probably won't. I should be looking forward to it, but I know I'm just going to spend all night worrying that The Toilet From Hell is going to collapse in my absence.
Anyway, I had to saw a bit of pipe to fit better and I broke the blade of my brand new hacksaw. Incredible. Still, I was in no mood for defeat and used the stub of the saw to make the required cuts, went to work again and FINALLY things are looking good.
Now I have to go to a writer's meeting to meet the publisher of a mag I freelance for. Apparently there are changes afoot, new opportunities with the publishing company expanding, new rates to discuss, as well as the question of whether they will agree to give me a regular humorous column. I think they should. They probably won't. I should be looking forward to it, but I know I'm just going to spend all night worrying that The Toilet From Hell is going to collapse in my absence.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Leaning Tower Of Piss
This is what happens when you let me loose on a home improvement project. I took that old flusher out and put this one in, but there's something not quite satisfying about it.
Anyway, all good. It is leany, but it works.
The Dreaded One has just driven off to the remnants of a doof, I'll try to correct The Leaning Tower Of Toilet tomorow.
The spare bits on the toilet seat? Fucked if I know where they're supposed to go.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Walk The Walk
Last night I met a friend at the pub. She's visiting from OS, was drinking with friends, a couple I haven't met. Big hug from her. Really good to see her. Checked that everyone was right for drink because it was almost closing (I'd come straight from a play). Walked inside, got drinks and came back out onto the landing. One of the other guys came over and told me that one of the girls I hadn't met had watched me walk away, then told them that I "have a really sexy walk for a guy."
Um... do you know what that kind of thing does to you? Just in case you've never been told by a stranger that you have a sexy walk, I'll tell you what it does to you. It makes you laugh and joke about practising and you brush it off. But you look at the girl who said it and you just kind of repeat the phrase to yourself. Then you say to your girlfriend, "See?" with a thumb to the chest. "Sexy walk. Me. And I wasn't even trying. Lucky you." Then you don't want to get up from the table because you know everyone is going to be checking out this sexy walk of yours. And you think how is it sexy? What the hell am I doing that someone thinks I have a sexy walk? Was it just a freak bit of walking or is my regular walk sexy? Maybe I just swivelled my hips to negotiate around a table. Or maybe it really is just a sexy walk. Is it just her or do people in the street every day go phwoar - check out the way he walks... sex-eee...
And then the next day you get really retarded and start walking around with that Bee Gee's song in your head. "Aaaaaahhhh... well you can tell by the way I use my walk, I'm a woman's man, no time for talk..." And you look around to see if anyone is noticing the way you walk. And you check yourself in shop windows because you really want to know what it is about this one foot in front of the other business that makes a person say it's sexy.
Re. Tard.
"Aaaaah... well you can tell by the way I use my walk..."
Um... do you know what that kind of thing does to you? Just in case you've never been told by a stranger that you have a sexy walk, I'll tell you what it does to you. It makes you laugh and joke about practising and you brush it off. But you look at the girl who said it and you just kind of repeat the phrase to yourself. Then you say to your girlfriend, "See?" with a thumb to the chest. "Sexy walk. Me. And I wasn't even trying. Lucky you." Then you don't want to get up from the table because you know everyone is going to be checking out this sexy walk of yours. And you think how is it sexy? What the hell am I doing that someone thinks I have a sexy walk? Was it just a freak bit of walking or is my regular walk sexy? Maybe I just swivelled my hips to negotiate around a table. Or maybe it really is just a sexy walk. Is it just her or do people in the street every day go phwoar - check out the way he walks... sex-eee...
And then the next day you get really retarded and start walking around with that Bee Gee's song in your head. "Aaaaaahhhh... well you can tell by the way I use my walk, I'm a woman's man, no time for talk..." And you look around to see if anyone is noticing the way you walk. And you check yourself in shop windows because you really want to know what it is about this one foot in front of the other business that makes a person say it's sexy.
Re. Tard.
"Aaaaah... well you can tell by the way I use my walk..."
An Audience With Insecurity
Wrote this review, and look at these funny people. This was the smallest, most polite, easily amused audience I've ever seen. I like theatrical humour. I'm soft as a reviewer for various reasons, but seriously, check out what this ridiculous support group has to say. The pompous attitude they are starting to take is that if I didn't laugh it's because the jokes went over my head, not because I didn't find them funny. Apparently you need a degree in cabaret to understand the secret complexities of the humour this particular show. Uh, no, not really.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
VagueLee
No energy to write anything entertaining today... although I did think this was worth sharing: got a call from The Dreaded One yesterday. She was in the shop going through the books, and she said she thought that I might have done something really silly. That she was talking about me and bank accounts made me wonder not whether it was possible that I had done something silly, but just how silly the thing was.
Couple of weeks ago I was transferring my shop pay, the meagre wages we pay ourselves for time spent working in the shop. Somehow I managed to transfer my pay out of my personal account and into the shop's business account. I subsequently went back to the more orthodox system of paying myself rather than paying for the opportunity of working here, but I quite probably would have never picked it up.
Do I win the tiara for Vaguest Creature In The Universe, or can someone top that one?
Couple of weeks ago I was transferring my shop pay, the meagre wages we pay ourselves for time spent working in the shop. Somehow I managed to transfer my pay out of my personal account and into the shop's business account. I subsequently went back to the more orthodox system of paying myself rather than paying for the opportunity of working here, but I quite probably would have never picked it up.
Do I win the tiara for Vaguest Creature In The Universe, or can someone top that one?
Saturday, September 23, 2006
A Star Is Born
I was supposed to work on a story today, but I wrote this instead. It's my next Grumpy column for a magazine in Queensland. Enjoy.
Grumpy
I fucking love it when inspiration falls with a splat right at your feet. Just the other night I was dicking with the telephone adapter and recorder, trying to figure out where all the bits go. It’s a dead easy process that involves pulling one plug out and putting another in, but remembering which plug and which socket is the complicated part because they all look the same. This has happened before when there has been pressure on with the interviewee having promised to call back in five minutes. Tension. Sweat. No time for mistakes. I do the switch and pick up the phone. No tone. Damn. MacGyver goes back in...
Erm... anyway, I was doing my MacGyver routine when the line from a really bad movie drifted in from the telly in the other room. It was a disaster (of a) movie about great big storms and Brian Dennehy was chewing out his staff because they hadn’t shouted “Run for your lives – it’s a great big storm and it’s heading right for us!” early enough. He totally bawled them out with this bit of poetry: “People DIED because we didn’t do our job properly. Now from now on if a dawg farts in Duluth, I wanna know about it!”
I put down my confusion of plugs and sockets because here was inspiration. This was my lucky break. You see, recently I started playing a male nurse on a popular hospital drama. I’m an extra, Ricky Gervais stylee. And my inspiration is to fast track my acting career. When I’m on the set next week, I’m going to shake shit up. I’m going to take things into my own hands. As a good friend encouraged, I’m gonna do it! I’m gonna own it!
When the director says action, this extra is going to seize the day. I’m going to stride over to the main characters just as they’re about to deliver their lines. I’m going to silence them with a raised hand, and I’m going to stun all on set with my awesome (if startling) acting skills.
“People DIIIIIED!” I’m going to snarl in my Brian Dennehyiest voice as I thrust my finger into the head doctor’s chest. “You wanna know why they died? They died because WE... you and me... and her... all of us here in this emergency room... WE didn’t do our job properly. Now from now on, if a dawg so much as farts in Duluth, I wanna know about it! Am I making myself perfectly fuck-in’ clear?”
Ah, sweet inspiration. This extra is going places.
Grumpy
I fucking love it when inspiration falls with a splat right at your feet. Just the other night I was dicking with the telephone adapter and recorder, trying to figure out where all the bits go. It’s a dead easy process that involves pulling one plug out and putting another in, but remembering which plug and which socket is the complicated part because they all look the same. This has happened before when there has been pressure on with the interviewee having promised to call back in five minutes. Tension. Sweat. No time for mistakes. I do the switch and pick up the phone. No tone. Damn. MacGyver goes back in...
Erm... anyway, I was doing my MacGyver routine when the line from a really bad movie drifted in from the telly in the other room. It was a disaster (of a) movie about great big storms and Brian Dennehy was chewing out his staff because they hadn’t shouted “Run for your lives – it’s a great big storm and it’s heading right for us!” early enough. He totally bawled them out with this bit of poetry: “People DIED because we didn’t do our job properly. Now from now on if a dawg farts in Duluth, I wanna know about it!”
I put down my confusion of plugs and sockets because here was inspiration. This was my lucky break. You see, recently I started playing a male nurse on a popular hospital drama. I’m an extra, Ricky Gervais stylee. And my inspiration is to fast track my acting career. When I’m on the set next week, I’m going to shake shit up. I’m going to take things into my own hands. As a good friend encouraged, I’m gonna do it! I’m gonna own it!
When the director says action, this extra is going to seize the day. I’m going to stride over to the main characters just as they’re about to deliver their lines. I’m going to silence them with a raised hand, and I’m going to stun all on set with my awesome (if startling) acting skills.
“People DIIIIIED!” I’m going to snarl in my Brian Dennehyiest voice as I thrust my finger into the head doctor’s chest. “You wanna know why they died? They died because WE... you and me... and her... all of us here in this emergency room... WE didn’t do our job properly. Now from now on, if a dawg so much as farts in Duluth, I wanna know about it! Am I making myself perfectly fuck-in’ clear?”
Ah, sweet inspiration. This extra is going places.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Arse Line
I have no real recollection of where it happened, but my memory is of hearing someone say quite earnestly something about something 'ruining my arse line.' It struck me as the funniest, most ludicrously vain thing to say, and I said to The Dreaded One "Did you hear what they said?"
Naturally I've been saying it ever since. You have to say it in a slightly petulant tone, furrowed brow, like you're trying to solve one of the universe's great mysteries. "Ooh - I just can't put my wallet in the pocket of these jeans - it completely ruins my arse line."
It comes out deadpan, and The Dreaded One knows it's a joke, and we've done it so many times that neither of us even bothers laughing or indicating in any way that this is our little joke.
But the guy at the traffic lights who overhears it, he doesn't know it's a joke. He looks sideways at me to see what kind of vain twat would get all sooky about their wallet ruining their arse line and later he probably tells his girlfriend, "I was standing at the lights today and you wouldn't believe what this twat actually said. He said ooh I can't possibly put my wallet in these jeans because..."
And on it goes.
Naturally I've been saying it ever since. You have to say it in a slightly petulant tone, furrowed brow, like you're trying to solve one of the universe's great mysteries. "Ooh - I just can't put my wallet in the pocket of these jeans - it completely ruins my arse line."
It comes out deadpan, and The Dreaded One knows it's a joke, and we've done it so many times that neither of us even bothers laughing or indicating in any way that this is our little joke.
But the guy at the traffic lights who overhears it, he doesn't know it's a joke. He looks sideways at me to see what kind of vain twat would get all sooky about their wallet ruining their arse line and later he probably tells his girlfriend, "I was standing at the lights today and you wouldn't believe what this twat actually said. He said ooh I can't possibly put my wallet in these jeans because..."
And on it goes.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Self-censorship Is Gay
I wrote a post the other day that I deleted because I thought it was a little harsh. It amused me and it was just something that happened, but there was someone else I thought might drop by this blog who was on the set this particular day and we'd had some really nice chats about fiction and writing and I dunno, the thought of her seeing a side of me that was not so nice just made me censor myself.
However after seeing part of a Bill Hicks DVD last night and reading about a guy called Sam Kinison this morning, I just kinda thought fuck it, sometimes you've just gotta tell it like it is.
Scroll down a couple of posts if you're interested. It's the one with Ricky Gervais in the title. Given the no holds barred approach of the amazingly funny Bill Hicks, it's actually quite tame. And it doesn't come close to capturing the slow minutes that oozed by as this prick inflicted his pathetic, misguided bitterness on my otherwise positive mood.
However after seeing part of a Bill Hicks DVD last night and reading about a guy called Sam Kinison this morning, I just kinda thought fuck it, sometimes you've just gotta tell it like it is.
Scroll down a couple of posts if you're interested. It's the one with Ricky Gervais in the title. Given the no holds barred approach of the amazingly funny Bill Hicks, it's actually quite tame. And it doesn't come close to capturing the slow minutes that oozed by as this prick inflicted his pathetic, misguided bitterness on my otherwise positive mood.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Theatre Terrorism
Saw a play called Terrorism on Saturday night and wrote my review of it when I got home. I was a little drinkified at the time of writing, and the following day at Earthdance when roaringly drinkified (not that I roar a hell of a lot) I couldn’t remember what I wrote in the review. Just now I opened the mag and read with trepidation, but it’s okay. I don’t think you can tell I was a little squiffed.
In the review I refer to a bonehead in the audience who went “Aaaahhh…” in two syllables when the penny dropped for him. Just thought he’d let those around him know that he knew what was going on. What the fuck is wrong with these people? We’re all watching the same play, dumbfuck. It’s not a competition to see who ‘gets it’ first. And in any case, why is it that the people who feel this need to let everyone else know they get it seem to get it so much later than everyone else?
Worse than this bonehead, though, was the guy eating something wrapped in crinkly plastic. You get these retards in movie theatres and you kind of expect it, and probably avoid movie theatres because of these people. But in a drama theatre? It just went on and on and when I looked over my shoulder and locked my death rays on him, the sorry fucker just kept on crinkling away, all of his attention taken up with the muesli bar that he was peeeeling like a banana. Slowly slowly, crinkle crinkle, munch munch. Do that shit outside, for fuck sake. And why was no one telling him to stop it? The people sitting directly next to him or behind him, it was their duty to give him grief. Bah! Humans!
At another point in the play, two of the actors get their kit off. Both were good looking and in great shape, especially her. They were doing a bedroom scene that changed in mood from sexy to playful to tense to darkly dramatic. Due to the lying down nature of the scene and the guy in front of me with the strangely conical head and wiry hair, do you think I got more than the most frustrating glimpses of the actress’s gorgeously naked body? I mean her courageous acting talent? Conehead was effectively censoring the whole scene for me. It was fine while they were standing up, but that lasted all of a minute or so, then they got into bed and a bit of bondage ensued and all I saw was Hair Of Conehead. Situation like that, you can’t exactly lean over to see or ask the guy to please change the shape of his head. I mean, this is theatre, all sophisticated and stuff. One crane of the neck and everyone is going to be thinking “Look - it’s that sweaty perv guy.”
Needless to say, The Dreaded One was greatly amused when I told her I saw bugger all of the nudey action, because she had a clear view of everything.
Anyway, it was a good play. So good I might just pop along to see it again...
In the review I refer to a bonehead in the audience who went “Aaaahhh…” in two syllables when the penny dropped for him. Just thought he’d let those around him know that he knew what was going on. What the fuck is wrong with these people? We’re all watching the same play, dumbfuck. It’s not a competition to see who ‘gets it’ first. And in any case, why is it that the people who feel this need to let everyone else know they get it seem to get it so much later than everyone else?
Worse than this bonehead, though, was the guy eating something wrapped in crinkly plastic. You get these retards in movie theatres and you kind of expect it, and probably avoid movie theatres because of these people. But in a drama theatre? It just went on and on and when I looked over my shoulder and locked my death rays on him, the sorry fucker just kept on crinkling away, all of his attention taken up with the muesli bar that he was peeeeling like a banana. Slowly slowly, crinkle crinkle, munch munch. Do that shit outside, for fuck sake. And why was no one telling him to stop it? The people sitting directly next to him or behind him, it was their duty to give him grief. Bah! Humans!
At another point in the play, two of the actors get their kit off. Both were good looking and in great shape, especially her. They were doing a bedroom scene that changed in mood from sexy to playful to tense to darkly dramatic. Due to the lying down nature of the scene and the guy in front of me with the strangely conical head and wiry hair, do you think I got more than the most frustrating glimpses of the actress’s gorgeously naked body? I mean her courageous acting talent? Conehead was effectively censoring the whole scene for me. It was fine while they were standing up, but that lasted all of a minute or so, then they got into bed and a bit of bondage ensued and all I saw was Hair Of Conehead. Situation like that, you can’t exactly lean over to see or ask the guy to please change the shape of his head. I mean, this is theatre, all sophisticated and stuff. One crane of the neck and everyone is going to be thinking “Look - it’s that sweaty perv guy.”
Needless to say, The Dreaded One was greatly amused when I told her I saw bugger all of the nudey action, because she had a clear view of everything.
Anyway, it was a good play. So good I might just pop along to see it again...
Monday, September 18, 2006
What A Wunnerful Weekend
That was the kind of weekend I could spend forever with. Saturday was really cool in the shop, making people happy. Saturday night I saw a play called Terrorism. Black comedy, bloody enjoyable. Grabbed wine and pizza at a pizza place on Darlinghurst road and sat on the street in mild weather, wrote the review later that night because I had a feeling Earthdance the next day was going to be bendy. Bent it was.
Arrived early for the peace ceremony. Lots of our alternative friends were already there. I reckon that more than 90% of the people who attend Earthdance only come for the party and couldn't give a shit about the point of it all. Heathens. (This was the first year I wasn't a heathen).
Anyway, it was just an awesome day full of catching up, laughter, silliness, sunburn dancing dancing and more dancing. The Dreaded One was on a mission and I'm still rarely able to say no to a mission. I keep thinking the party animal is dead, but apparently not. The psytrance stage was the only place to be, and someone non-psytrance observed when walking by that area that the place was going off. Everyone should experience that kind of vibe. While the other punters were treating their music like background music, the psy fraternity had jugglers, fire twirlers and colourfully-attired stompers going nuts by midday.
Long story short, 8 hours of intense stomping wasn't enough so we kicked on to the after party for several more hours. Sore from it all? Fuck yeah. But when it's that much fun, what can you do?
I need food tonight though. Lamb shank and vegetable stew, red wine, nourishment.
Arrived early for the peace ceremony. Lots of our alternative friends were already there. I reckon that more than 90% of the people who attend Earthdance only come for the party and couldn't give a shit about the point of it all. Heathens. (This was the first year I wasn't a heathen).
Anyway, it was just an awesome day full of catching up, laughter, silliness, sunburn dancing dancing and more dancing. The Dreaded One was on a mission and I'm still rarely able to say no to a mission. I keep thinking the party animal is dead, but apparently not. The psytrance stage was the only place to be, and someone non-psytrance observed when walking by that area that the place was going off. Everyone should experience that kind of vibe. While the other punters were treating their music like background music, the psy fraternity had jugglers, fire twirlers and colourfully-attired stompers going nuts by midday.
Long story short, 8 hours of intense stomping wasn't enough so we kicked on to the after party for several more hours. Sore from it all? Fuck yeah. But when it's that much fun, what can you do?
I need food tonight though. Lamb shank and vegetable stew, red wine, nourishment.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Peace & Ha Money
Finished my third day of being a male nurse on All Saints. I'm so used to walking up to people and miming now that I feel the urge to do it to real people. Bloody funny thing to have to do. As is being a 'wipe'. I have been a wipe. I am a wipe on many occasions in this episode. A wipe is when you are not a blur in the background but a close up blur. You walk quickly by just centimetres away from the camera to give the effect of... well someone walking by just centimetres away from the camera.
Funny how devices such as the wipe are somehow supposed to heighten the reality, yet what they are really doing is drawing attention to the fact that there is a camera present. Much like the hand-held look. Like, when you look around at a room full of people in actual real life, your vision doesn't pop in and out of focus. And you don't zoom in on a chair leg when someone is speaking... hmm, maybe sometimes.
Just had my two stories confirmed as being in the Age comp. Excitement. Wonder if I can enter a third.
Exciting too is the fact that Kolliope are coming to Sydney for their first gig. Raved about their album Oracles & Glands before. My love affair with it has not diminished. I am looking forward to it so much. And they've said they're going to come into the shop. And I'm going to have to try hard not to act like a gushing groupie when I catch up with them. I am in awe of anyone who can make such seriously magical music.
Off to see a black comedy called Terrorism tonight. Going alone because The Dreaded One will still be at work. Would change it to tomorrow night but the review has to be in on Sunday, and Sunday is Earthdance. Earthdance will see me quite scootered, I am sure, and in no fit state to write anything coherent.
Told someone before that this year I plan to go to Earthdance early to attend the prayer for peace ceremony. Not sure what happens but I thought it would be amusing to ask someone if this was where the prayer for large sums of money took place.
"Sorry dude, this is the prayer for peace."
"Oh. Pardon me. My mistake. Wrong prayer. I'm actually after the lots of money one."
Seriously, I think the ceremony will be interesting. I don't do much spiritual stuff, and although I believe humanity is beyond prayer, I don't think there's any harm in joining in.
After the ceremony, of course, like everyone else in Sydney park and at various venues around the world at the same time, I'm gonna party my arse off. 20, 000 people expected at Sydney Park at the end of King Street in St Peters. Awesome.
Funny how devices such as the wipe are somehow supposed to heighten the reality, yet what they are really doing is drawing attention to the fact that there is a camera present. Much like the hand-held look. Like, when you look around at a room full of people in actual real life, your vision doesn't pop in and out of focus. And you don't zoom in on a chair leg when someone is speaking... hmm, maybe sometimes.
Just had my two stories confirmed as being in the Age comp. Excitement. Wonder if I can enter a third.
Exciting too is the fact that Kolliope are coming to Sydney for their first gig. Raved about their album Oracles & Glands before. My love affair with it has not diminished. I am looking forward to it so much. And they've said they're going to come into the shop. And I'm going to have to try hard not to act like a gushing groupie when I catch up with them. I am in awe of anyone who can make such seriously magical music.
Off to see a black comedy called Terrorism tonight. Going alone because The Dreaded One will still be at work. Would change it to tomorrow night but the review has to be in on Sunday, and Sunday is Earthdance. Earthdance will see me quite scootered, I am sure, and in no fit state to write anything coherent.
Told someone before that this year I plan to go to Earthdance early to attend the prayer for peace ceremony. Not sure what happens but I thought it would be amusing to ask someone if this was where the prayer for large sums of money took place.
"Sorry dude, this is the prayer for peace."
"Oh. Pardon me. My mistake. Wrong prayer. I'm actually after the lots of money one."
Seriously, I think the ceremony will be interesting. I don't do much spiritual stuff, and although I believe humanity is beyond prayer, I don't think there's any harm in joining in.
After the ceremony, of course, like everyone else in Sydney park and at various venues around the world at the same time, I'm gonna party my arse off. 20, 000 people expected at Sydney Park at the end of King Street in St Peters. Awesome.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Ricky Gervais Ain't Got Nothin' On This
Being a freelance writer, my average working week is a bit of a Frankenstein’s Monster. Bit of retail, bit of hospitality, bit of being an extra on a popular Australian drama. That’s okay, because when part of your freelance output is writing observational pieces, you need something to observe.
When I arrived in the green room on the set of said popular drama, I was confronted with a motley collection extras of several ethnic backgrounds, one or two genders and a wide variety of ages. All were dressed as the kind of people you are likely to encounter in the emergency wing of a hospital. You know, doctors, nurses, ambulance drivers, patients and visitors.
A few extras seemed to know each other and were chatting amongst themselves. Others didn’t know each other and had The Extras Chat, invariably beginning with “Been doing this long?” or “Been getting much work?” or “Is this your first job?”
A few others were reading books or magazines and that was okay. Many hours ahead and you pass the time away however you like, within reason. I decided, for now, to be a reader. Plenty of opportunity for The Extras Chat later in the day.
Cut to later in the day and I’ve chatted to a few people. I see this one old guy who made a little joke earlier that made me think about how we under-estimate old people. My natural tendency is just to gravitate to younger, more fun-sounding people, and that, I decided, was fucked up. This old guy had been young once. He’d lived a full life, yet no one was bothering to talk to him (or any of the other wrinklies, other than the other wrinklies). Everyone else, it seemed, also just wanted to hang out with the good looking crowd. I decided to correct a little injustice in the world and talk to the old feller. I decided that I was going to talk to this old guy dressed as a patient, with his little funny slippers and his daggy robe and his rheumy eyes, papery skin and his liver spots because one day I might be old too, and fuck it, I’ve got loads of funny stories I hope I’ll be able to share with the young folk. I felt an inner glow that almost brought a tear to my eye. “Yes,” I patted myself on the back, “you are a really nice guy after all.”
Let me say here that, sure, there might be some old folk out there with rollicking tales to tell, but there are some you should not under any circumstances encourage because when all is said and done, they are boring old cunts of the highest order. Guess which category this old fucker fell into? Christ, he looked harmless enough, but talking to him was like poking a terrier with a stick, and he was about to attempt to savage me with the most relentless onslaught of boredom I’d ever encountered.
For space reasons, I’m going to condense this into one monologue. What I am not going to do is embellish... or unembellish, as is probably the correct term when speaking of such mind-numbing tedium...
Me: “So, you do much of this kind of work?”
Boring Old Twat: “Well, I’ve only just started doing it again after a break of five years, but before that, yairs, I used to do a lot. Speaking parts are the best and they’re more interesting because they make things more interesting. But they’re not always that easy to get. In fact they are very hard to get. I... I have had speaking parts but just not all that many because you know, things can let you down. Things like people always let you down. You know, sometimes I got a late call once and had to stay up late learning my lines, and it was an early start oh by geez by the time you learn your line you’ve forgotten that you have to act it. You have to act it as well as say it y’know, and anyway, after that they never called me back.
“And this other time my wife and I were going to do a ballroom dancing scene and at the last minute the wife couldn’t make it so they teamed me up with a woman who SAID she could ballroom dance but ooh she was awful, so I didn’t get that job because of her. It’s all about the people you work with, they can all let you down.
“My son has written this script and y’know? I think it’s pretty good. A lot better than most of the rubbish on today. It’s drama – with some comedy... hehe... but mostly it’s a really good drama. He launched it very successfully on his website and lots of people have told him that they think it’s a good idea, and all the production companies have said it needs to be half hour episodes or one hour episodes and they’re minor quibbles. They don’t seem to be able to look past the minor quibbles to see what a good idea it would be.
“He even flew to America to a conference with it and someone at the conference who was from England said come to England and we can have a meeting about it so he flew to England and they said, ‘Did we say come to England for a meeting? We don’t remember saying that.’ It doesn’t seem to be about how good it is so much as who you know. My son has also gone for so many jobs as a TV presenter and do you think he ever gets the presenter’s job? No way. They always give it to someone who’s been a presenter before or is an actor of good repute.
“He’s reluctant to show many people the script or tell them too much about it in case they steal the idea. So far he’s lucky because after showing it to all the people he’s shown it to, no one has stolen the idea.
“My son always wanted to be an actor but he thought we’d say it wasn’t a real job. So he was a hairdresser for a while and a cook and one day he started a magazine that’s still around. It’s called Flower Fragrance and it caused a bit of a stir. It’s about funerals. It’s about how much different funerals cost and the kinds of coffins you can get and he’s pretty smart, my son. Saw a hole in the market and started a magazine.
“Then he started another magazine that caused almost as big a stir as the funeral one. This one was a medical diagnosis book called Medical Diagnosis – maybe you’ve heard of it? No? You write all your ailments in it and it tells you what’s wrong with you so you don’t need to see a doctor. Some people didn’t like it, but you know, all sorts of people were giving it to people as presents and things...”
This is a truncated version. I was lectured on a word definition at one stage and informed knowledgably that theatre reviewing probably consisted mainly of making sure the right adjective was used and that I must check Roget's Thesaurus a lot. Wot? Miserable and bitter old prick just would not shut up. Early on I’d made the mistake of telling him that I was a freelance editor and writer, and that’s how the whole sorry business about his son’s brilliant script came up, and at the end of his life story he asked for my card because maybe the script needs to be completely re-written. Fucker followed me into the green room. I had my nose buried in my book – a Do Not Disturb sign if ever there was one because I simply was not going to have my day ruined like this, and this diabolical knob stood over me and kept talking and asking for my card. Christ in a Zimmer frame – why hadn’t I ever thought to keep a few fake business cards handy for just such an occasion?
Anyway, lesson learned. Don’t talk to old people. They suck.
When I arrived in the green room on the set of said popular drama, I was confronted with a motley collection extras of several ethnic backgrounds, one or two genders and a wide variety of ages. All were dressed as the kind of people you are likely to encounter in the emergency wing of a hospital. You know, doctors, nurses, ambulance drivers, patients and visitors.
A few extras seemed to know each other and were chatting amongst themselves. Others didn’t know each other and had The Extras Chat, invariably beginning with “Been doing this long?” or “Been getting much work?” or “Is this your first job?”
A few others were reading books or magazines and that was okay. Many hours ahead and you pass the time away however you like, within reason. I decided, for now, to be a reader. Plenty of opportunity for The Extras Chat later in the day.
Cut to later in the day and I’ve chatted to a few people. I see this one old guy who made a little joke earlier that made me think about how we under-estimate old people. My natural tendency is just to gravitate to younger, more fun-sounding people, and that, I decided, was fucked up. This old guy had been young once. He’d lived a full life, yet no one was bothering to talk to him (or any of the other wrinklies, other than the other wrinklies). Everyone else, it seemed, also just wanted to hang out with the good looking crowd. I decided to correct a little injustice in the world and talk to the old feller. I decided that I was going to talk to this old guy dressed as a patient, with his little funny slippers and his daggy robe and his rheumy eyes, papery skin and his liver spots because one day I might be old too, and fuck it, I’ve got loads of funny stories I hope I’ll be able to share with the young folk. I felt an inner glow that almost brought a tear to my eye. “Yes,” I patted myself on the back, “you are a really nice guy after all.”
Let me say here that, sure, there might be some old folk out there with rollicking tales to tell, but there are some you should not under any circumstances encourage because when all is said and done, they are boring old cunts of the highest order. Guess which category this old fucker fell into? Christ, he looked harmless enough, but talking to him was like poking a terrier with a stick, and he was about to attempt to savage me with the most relentless onslaught of boredom I’d ever encountered.
For space reasons, I’m going to condense this into one monologue. What I am not going to do is embellish... or unembellish, as is probably the correct term when speaking of such mind-numbing tedium...
Me: “So, you do much of this kind of work?”
Boring Old Twat: “Well, I’ve only just started doing it again after a break of five years, but before that, yairs, I used to do a lot. Speaking parts are the best and they’re more interesting because they make things more interesting. But they’re not always that easy to get. In fact they are very hard to get. I... I have had speaking parts but just not all that many because you know, things can let you down. Things like people always let you down. You know, sometimes I got a late call once and had to stay up late learning my lines, and it was an early start oh by geez by the time you learn your line you’ve forgotten that you have to act it. You have to act it as well as say it y’know, and anyway, after that they never called me back.
“And this other time my wife and I were going to do a ballroom dancing scene and at the last minute the wife couldn’t make it so they teamed me up with a woman who SAID she could ballroom dance but ooh she was awful, so I didn’t get that job because of her. It’s all about the people you work with, they can all let you down.
“My son has written this script and y’know? I think it’s pretty good. A lot better than most of the rubbish on today. It’s drama – with some comedy... hehe... but mostly it’s a really good drama. He launched it very successfully on his website and lots of people have told him that they think it’s a good idea, and all the production companies have said it needs to be half hour episodes or one hour episodes and they’re minor quibbles. They don’t seem to be able to look past the minor quibbles to see what a good idea it would be.
“He even flew to America to a conference with it and someone at the conference who was from England said come to England and we can have a meeting about it so he flew to England and they said, ‘Did we say come to England for a meeting? We don’t remember saying that.’ It doesn’t seem to be about how good it is so much as who you know. My son has also gone for so many jobs as a TV presenter and do you think he ever gets the presenter’s job? No way. They always give it to someone who’s been a presenter before or is an actor of good repute.
“He’s reluctant to show many people the script or tell them too much about it in case they steal the idea. So far he’s lucky because after showing it to all the people he’s shown it to, no one has stolen the idea.
“My son always wanted to be an actor but he thought we’d say it wasn’t a real job. So he was a hairdresser for a while and a cook and one day he started a magazine that’s still around. It’s called Flower Fragrance and it caused a bit of a stir. It’s about funerals. It’s about how much different funerals cost and the kinds of coffins you can get and he’s pretty smart, my son. Saw a hole in the market and started a magazine.
“Then he started another magazine that caused almost as big a stir as the funeral one. This one was a medical diagnosis book called Medical Diagnosis – maybe you’ve heard of it? No? You write all your ailments in it and it tells you what’s wrong with you so you don’t need to see a doctor. Some people didn’t like it, but you know, all sorts of people were giving it to people as presents and things...”
This is a truncated version. I was lectured on a word definition at one stage and informed knowledgably that theatre reviewing probably consisted mainly of making sure the right adjective was used and that I must check Roget's Thesaurus a lot. Wot? Miserable and bitter old prick just would not shut up. Early on I’d made the mistake of telling him that I was a freelance editor and writer, and that’s how the whole sorry business about his son’s brilliant script came up, and at the end of his life story he asked for my card because maybe the script needs to be completely re-written. Fucker followed me into the green room. I had my nose buried in my book – a Do Not Disturb sign if ever there was one because I simply was not going to have my day ruined like this, and this diabolical knob stood over me and kept talking and asking for my card. Christ in a Zimmer frame – why hadn’t I ever thought to keep a few fake business cards handy for just such an occasion?
Anyway, lesson learned. Don’t talk to old people. They suck.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Extras Long Story, Extra Short Story
After a totally relaxing day yesterday I looked up where I had to go for this extras job. Channel 7. The Dreaded One said she thought it was in Pyrmont, just down by Darling Harbour. I looked it up, she appeared to be right. I got her to drop me off with 10 minutes to spare. She drove off and as I entered the building I just knew something was wrong. This was Channel 7, but this was no studio. It was their admin head quarters and the studio is to buggery away. Agency hadn't given me a contact number and they should probably have mentioned the suburb Epping when telling me what time I had to be there. I called the agency, called The Dreaded One and there was lots of stressed swearing from all concerned.
Few key words to cut a long story short: Epping. Far away. Dropped Dreaded One back home, drove with one eye on road map. Epping road at peak hour is referred to as Epping Car Park. Little blinky light insisting that tank was empty. Stress headache. Not cool for extras to be one and a half hours late.
The guy at the gate insisted my name was not on the list and I started thinking violent thoughts if the agency had put me through this for nothing. Turns out that they had also failed to tell me that I was replacing someone and the list had not been updated to include my name. Calls to assistant directors and things were finally cleared up.
I spent the next four hours in the green room reading my Jeff Noon book, with about 20 minutes or so on set being an animated blur in the background of the emergency ward.
Also, this morning I put the finishing touches on another short story I'll be entering into competition. Way excited about this second one. Even if it doesn't rate a mention in the comp, like the first one now that I have renewed enthusiasm for it (thank you Amra), I'm still going to push them post comp because I am happy with them.
Few key words to cut a long story short: Epping. Far away. Dropped Dreaded One back home, drove with one eye on road map. Epping road at peak hour is referred to as Epping Car Park. Little blinky light insisting that tank was empty. Stress headache. Not cool for extras to be one and a half hours late.
The guy at the gate insisted my name was not on the list and I started thinking violent thoughts if the agency had put me through this for nothing. Turns out that they had also failed to tell me that I was replacing someone and the list had not been updated to include my name. Calls to assistant directors and things were finally cleared up.
I spent the next four hours in the green room reading my Jeff Noon book, with about 20 minutes or so on set being an animated blur in the background of the emergency ward.
Also, this morning I put the finishing touches on another short story I'll be entering into competition. Way excited about this second one. Even if it doesn't rate a mention in the comp, like the first one now that I have renewed enthusiasm for it (thank you Amra), I'm still going to push them post comp because I am happy with them.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Introducing Doctor Luke Montgomery
So I reeeeeally don't want to work with Mr Passive Aggressive in the Opera House kitchen on Thursday (only day I'm rostered on this week) but I didn't know what else I could do. It's still money. Then the phone rings and it's the extras agency I signed with and they want to know if I want to play a male nurse in All Saints over the next three days, including a full day's shoot on Thursday. Spooky timing or what. Woo hoo!
Also, after years of missing the deadline for The Age Short Story Of The Year competition, I finally got an entry in. With enough time to spare to maybe get something else in. They change the cut-off date each year and I have always missed it by a few days, but not this year. Aaaaa hahahahahaaaa... I kick arse.
I don't expect to win, but it's fun having an entry in there.
Do male nurses get stethoscopes? I think I have to have a stethoscope to fully get into my part as Doctor Luke Montgomery, a passionate man and the driving force behind the entire emergency wing of All Saints. He works hard, he plays hard, he loves like a saint...
Erm, just diagnosed myself with Carriedawayitis.
Gotta dash.
Also, after years of missing the deadline for The Age Short Story Of The Year competition, I finally got an entry in. With enough time to spare to maybe get something else in. They change the cut-off date each year and I have always missed it by a few days, but not this year. Aaaaa hahahahahaaaa... I kick arse.
I don't expect to win, but it's fun having an entry in there.
Do male nurses get stethoscopes? I think I have to have a stethoscope to fully get into my part as Doctor Luke Montgomery, a passionate man and the driving force behind the entire emergency wing of All Saints. He works hard, he plays hard, he loves like a saint...
Erm, just diagnosed myself with Carriedawayitis.
Gotta dash.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Your Eternal Moment
Following on from the previous post, if you had to live for eternity in the memory of one moment of your life, what would that memory be?
For me it would be a morning in Spain. Barcelona in late March 2006. I woke up still nicely drunk in Pension Dali in the Gothic Quarter, just off La Rambla. Sunshine was spilling through the window, slice of pale blue sky, church bell ringing in the air. A cool breeze drifted through the open window, the whispered promise of another golden day. The chime of the bell danced with laughter and street voices chattering in a language I didn't understand.
The Dreaded One was lying across me in her familiar way. Her arm was lying loosely across my chest, her breath caressing my neck, her hand flinching occasionally with the twitch of a dream. It was one of those moments we all have, when you think if only this could last forever I would be content.
The moment itself was sublime enough on a physical level, but there was also the past and the future adding to the moment. I had quit my job. I had cut myself adrift. I had just been to Turkey to see an eclipse and I had danced in the rain and the mud and the sunshine at a week-long festival. I’d seen ancient ruins and done the kind of things I never could have believed a shy kid from the suburbs would ever do. There had been times in my former life when my family home was a caravan in someone’s garage and the future looked dull, and check me out now with my memories and my Rioja tainted breath and this beautiful woman whose presence in my life will always amaze me.
But this moment of freedom was not just about memories; it was also about the future.
Lying there drinking
in each passing second,
writing bad poetry
with my head pencil,
I thought about the day ahead and had no idea what I would do or where I would be, and I felt alive. Lying there in my cheap little room that may as well have been a palace, I thought about where I would be in a few days. I was heading to England again and I was going to see someone who felt weirdly important to me. I was going to see someone I wanted to see so much it scared me, someone who was probably the only person alive who could consistently and effortlessly draw real and hearty laughter from me. In many ways I’d prefer not to be so attached to people, but these things happen. They’re good things really.
Lying in bed that morning I felt like the luckiest fucker that ever lived. I really felt alive and I was genuinely grateful to be alive. My head was calm. The past had done its job and brought me to this place I could only have dreamed of, and I was heading for yet more happiness. Luckiest fucker that ever lived.
So that’s me. That’s my eternal moment. Got through the past, grateful for the present, looking forward to the future.
What would your moment be?
For me it would be a morning in Spain. Barcelona in late March 2006. I woke up still nicely drunk in Pension Dali in the Gothic Quarter, just off La Rambla. Sunshine was spilling through the window, slice of pale blue sky, church bell ringing in the air. A cool breeze drifted through the open window, the whispered promise of another golden day. The chime of the bell danced with laughter and street voices chattering in a language I didn't understand.
The Dreaded One was lying across me in her familiar way. Her arm was lying loosely across my chest, her breath caressing my neck, her hand flinching occasionally with the twitch of a dream. It was one of those moments we all have, when you think if only this could last forever I would be content.
The moment itself was sublime enough on a physical level, but there was also the past and the future adding to the moment. I had quit my job. I had cut myself adrift. I had just been to Turkey to see an eclipse and I had danced in the rain and the mud and the sunshine at a week-long festival. I’d seen ancient ruins and done the kind of things I never could have believed a shy kid from the suburbs would ever do. There had been times in my former life when my family home was a caravan in someone’s garage and the future looked dull, and check me out now with my memories and my Rioja tainted breath and this beautiful woman whose presence in my life will always amaze me.
But this moment of freedom was not just about memories; it was also about the future.
Lying there drinking
in each passing second,
writing bad poetry
with my head pencil,
I thought about the day ahead and had no idea what I would do or where I would be, and I felt alive. Lying there in my cheap little room that may as well have been a palace, I thought about where I would be in a few days. I was heading to England again and I was going to see someone who felt weirdly important to me. I was going to see someone I wanted to see so much it scared me, someone who was probably the only person alive who could consistently and effortlessly draw real and hearty laughter from me. In many ways I’d prefer not to be so attached to people, but these things happen. They’re good things really.
Lying in bed that morning I felt like the luckiest fucker that ever lived. I really felt alive and I was genuinely grateful to be alive. My head was calm. The past had done its job and brought me to this place I could only have dreamed of, and I was heading for yet more happiness. Luckiest fucker that ever lived.
So that’s me. That’s my eternal moment. Got through the past, grateful for the present, looking forward to the future.
What would your moment be?
Saturday, September 09, 2006
100 Review
Here's my review for the play 100, out in Drum Media on Tuesday. Drum is a magazine so there's no link, so here it is. If you're a Sydney-sider, check the play out. I really think this is delicious theatre.
I think I have my eternal moment, going to post something about that tomorrow.
100
Let’s not beat about the bush here: this is excellent theatre. The concept is excellent, the acting is excellent, the production is excellent... seriously, there was excellence flying about all over the place at The Lock Up last Friday night. If anyone with an appreciation of theatre sees 100 and genuinely doesn’t enjoy it, get in touch with me and we can discuss it over a drink. My shout*.
In a play loosely inspired by Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s 100 Years Of Solitude, four recently deceased characters find themselves in limbo between life and death. They must choose the memory of one moment in their life in which to spend eternity. There is a time limit, they must choose quickly and the memory must be the essence of the person’s heart. No other memory will exist.
The characters’ lives unfold as memories are recounted and found to be not quite suitable, proceedings conducted and the characters’ predicament explained by a mysterious, otherworldly host. With the only props being four sticks, an orange and a couple of boxes, we are taken on a motorcycle race, to an office Christmas party, a children’s playground, a domestic home and the Amazon Rainforest. Fun stuff.
The characters are average people who have lead ordinary lives, and you can relate to them and feel for them as they rummage through their ordinariness to find that little bit of magic they will exist with forever.
There is no doubt Zach Lee’s performance will be the one that will leave the biggest impression; once again it was The Business, both as the deathly and slightly maniacal guide as well as the other minor characters he slipped into. But there were no creaky performances from the others – all played their main characters as well as minor characters with a deftness that was an absolute joy to watch.
No matter what drives you or what values you adhere to, you will come away looking at your own existence and wondering which moment from your own life you would choose, and the answer might have some of us re-assessing our priorities. It’s that kind of play.
If you have to choose one play and one play only between now and November 4 that is the essence of good theatre, I think 100 should be that play.
*Conditions apply.
LB
I think I have my eternal moment, going to post something about that tomorrow.
100
Let’s not beat about the bush here: this is excellent theatre. The concept is excellent, the acting is excellent, the production is excellent... seriously, there was excellence flying about all over the place at The Lock Up last Friday night. If anyone with an appreciation of theatre sees 100 and genuinely doesn’t enjoy it, get in touch with me and we can discuss it over a drink. My shout*.
In a play loosely inspired by Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s 100 Years Of Solitude, four recently deceased characters find themselves in limbo between life and death. They must choose the memory of one moment in their life in which to spend eternity. There is a time limit, they must choose quickly and the memory must be the essence of the person’s heart. No other memory will exist.
The characters’ lives unfold as memories are recounted and found to be not quite suitable, proceedings conducted and the characters’ predicament explained by a mysterious, otherworldly host. With the only props being four sticks, an orange and a couple of boxes, we are taken on a motorcycle race, to an office Christmas party, a children’s playground, a domestic home and the Amazon Rainforest. Fun stuff.
The characters are average people who have lead ordinary lives, and you can relate to them and feel for them as they rummage through their ordinariness to find that little bit of magic they will exist with forever.
There is no doubt Zach Lee’s performance will be the one that will leave the biggest impression; once again it was The Business, both as the deathly and slightly maniacal guide as well as the other minor characters he slipped into. But there were no creaky performances from the others – all played their main characters as well as minor characters with a deftness that was an absolute joy to watch.
No matter what drives you or what values you adhere to, you will come away looking at your own existence and wondering which moment from your own life you would choose, and the answer might have some of us re-assessing our priorities. It’s that kind of play.
If you have to choose one play and one play only between now and November 4 that is the essence of good theatre, I think 100 should be that play.
*Conditions apply.
LB
Friday, September 08, 2006
Eternal Memory
This gig at the Opera House has got to end. There have been some good people there, but the head "chef" at the moment is just not a nomal person. Spends all day picking me up on stupid little details... you know what? I don't even want to go into it. He's just the worst kind of passive aggressive fuckwit you could have the misfortune of dealing with. In a nutshell, he made me realise that true stupidity is to think a person is stupid simply because they don't know the same things you know. He is a very sad and ugly person, and I don't like being around sad and ugly people (and by ugly here I don't bald 'n big ears ugly).
Nice to be in the shop today. Big goth festival in Newtown on the weekend, so I've dismembered, undressed and re-dressed a couple of the mannequins in goth gear. The shop looks a little crazy. Kandy raver stuff going head-to-head for attention with Prince Of Darkness gear.
Have a story due in over the weekend and a play to see tonight called 100. Apparently it's influenced by 100 Years Of Solitude by Gaby baby and asks the question what memory would you choose to live in as your eternity. Cool concept. Oh - and this is the theatre company whose director told me to write an honest review when the curtain fell down and I wrote a not quite enthusiastic review. She'll be there tonight. Wonder what she'll say.
I have to write the story and the review by Sunday AND I promised I'd have two short stories ready for a short story comp by Monday SO there should be no further blogging this weekend BUT I have the entire weekend away from job work THEREFORE I wanna get drinkified and laugh at stuff AND I have no idea why I'm talking like this...
Anyway. What would you choose as your eternal memory? A fave moment in your life that you have to live in forever? I'm going to think about that and come back with my answer a little later (okay, so there goes my vow to not blog for the rest of the weekend).
Time lapse...
Back after seeing 100. Damn near perfect theatre. I totally fucking loved it. Simple. Accessible. Thought provoking. Entertaining performances. This theatre company is going to do some really good stuff. It did some magic tonight.
Nice to be in the shop today. Big goth festival in Newtown on the weekend, so I've dismembered, undressed and re-dressed a couple of the mannequins in goth gear. The shop looks a little crazy. Kandy raver stuff going head-to-head for attention with Prince Of Darkness gear.
Have a story due in over the weekend and a play to see tonight called 100. Apparently it's influenced by 100 Years Of Solitude by Gaby baby and asks the question what memory would you choose to live in as your eternity. Cool concept. Oh - and this is the theatre company whose director told me to write an honest review when the curtain fell down and I wrote a not quite enthusiastic review. She'll be there tonight. Wonder what she'll say.
I have to write the story and the review by Sunday AND I promised I'd have two short stories ready for a short story comp by Monday SO there should be no further blogging this weekend BUT I have the entire weekend away from job work THEREFORE I wanna get drinkified and laugh at stuff AND I have no idea why I'm talking like this...
Anyway. What would you choose as your eternal memory? A fave moment in your life that you have to live in forever? I'm going to think about that and come back with my answer a little later (okay, so there goes my vow to not blog for the rest of the weekend).
Time lapse...
Back after seeing 100. Damn near perfect theatre. I totally fucking loved it. Simple. Accessible. Thought provoking. Entertaining performances. This theatre company is going to do some really good stuff. It did some magic tonight.
Monday, September 04, 2006
The Cyber Dreaded One
Holy crappola. Check out The Dreaded One's new dreads. She has cyber-dreads. The cyber ones are like little tiny Slinkies, and some are highly UV reactive. We were in the theatre the other night and in one scene the lights went all UV to reveal some writing on the wall, and The Dreaded One's hair just kinda went whoomph and lit up in the dark like it had been plugged in. Pretty damn funny.Unlike the play. Here's my Drum Media review:
The Future Planners
Weird one. Wanted to like it, concept was kinda cool, but for me it just didn’t work. Guess I’ve just blown any reason you might have for wanting to read on. But just in case you’re interested, here’s this...
Plot: Bonnie has had apocalyptic visions and has chosen Greg to cohabit her post-apocalyptic bunker. They eat tinned peaches and play games and remember the past. Greg isn’t all that happy about the situation and eventually leaves.
Sounds straightforward enough and there’s a universe of possibilities to explore, but it just didn’t have that secret ingredient that pulled it all together. Granted, in the end we’re not entirely sure if the whole thing is real or imagined, but along the way it all seemed a little contrived and it’s difficult to pinpoint just why this is.
The acting was not overly engaging. It rarely escaped me that I was watching actors performing on stage. Clearly they have trained but seem yet to relax and really flesh out their characters and really be in the moment, to use a dicky phrase. They are not awful, they just didn’t seem to fit as snugly into their characters as they should have. Part of the problem here could be that writer/director/ star Stephanie Ward should perhaps think about relinquishing some control. It’s a bloody ambitious project to write, direct and star in your own work, and you’ve got to be some kind of genius or split personality to pull it off.
But the acting wasn’t the only problem. The writing itself didn’t feel quite there. Again there was a sense of This Is Theatre. It felt a little self-conscious and had far too many attempts at humour that just fell flat. The characters play games to pass the time away and I wasn’t the only one who cringed when Bonnie lost the vowel game and had to do The Thing. Just. Not. Funny.
It’s a story about obsessive love, it’s two people in a room; those two ingredients are all that is required for great theatre, and although this is not great, it’s not so bad that I wouldn’t happily choose it over a night in front of the telly.
Q
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Just Give Us The Information
I think I have a problem with focusing on the task at hand. I was in the process of trying to post a flier promo image on the shop's website tonight when I came across this photo.
Hands up who remembers my Owen The Penguin post. Hmm, not many of you. Anyway, there was a shot of a real fluffy penguin that was the cutest image ever, and I got my panties in a bunch because no one was leaving coments, so I threatened to Guantanamo the little fucker unless you left comments. It was all a bit weird because everyone started leaving comments saying I was a sick fuck or go on give it to the little bastard.
Fast forward many many months and I find myself in Brighton. There's a basketball throwing game on the pier where you can win a fluffy penguin bearing an uncanny resemblance to Owen. The Dreaded One and Bird said they didn't think I could win an Owen. As usual they were wrong and walked home with Owen tucked into the back of my purple poncho (shut up - it's Brighton where all the best people wear nothing but purple ponchos and fluffy penguins called Owen).
The oddest thing about this photo is that it is the result of two reasonably intelligent people spending the next two, maybe three hours Guantanamoing little Owen Hicks. Sure, it looks pretty bad for him now, but he was a stubborn little bastard and it took us hours to escalate the torture to this degree. He simply would not give us the information we wanted, which was... all he had to tell us was where the... information was. The information that we wanted. Which was very important information. But noooo. He was all, "But Missah Queeck, I don't have no infahmation. Ahm jus a liddle stuffed penguin wi' stitched up liddle penguin lips."
And Bird - playing bad interrogator - came over all, "CUNT! That's what you are, you little CUNT! Now give us the information before I kick your fuckin' face off and break that other bendy flippery thing... CUNT! By the time I've finished with you you'll have two FINGERS growing out of YOUR arse too!"
And good interrogator Quick said, "Chill, my delightful little minion. We've only just begun. How are your noose-tying skills?"
Right. I'm getting a little too into this. As we did on that day. Millions of photos. Ridiculous.
There really was a professionally-tied noose around Owen's neck by the end of the day. If only he'd given us the information. And if you click on the link at the side that says Remembering Argos, scroll down to the end (read the story if you want) you'll see a picture of me with Pigeon Christ looking over my shoulder, looking a little pissed off while his partner in torment hangs from a wall on the other side of the planet.
Sweet story huh?
Right, back to work.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Confessions Of A Sweaty Perv
I'm in my shop for three days this week. I like being here, as I've said before. I'm getting better at being pleasant and smiley and chatty. By and large the people the store attracts are pretty good people. They like the clothes and they like the music. Party people.
Yesterday, though, I felt like a sweaty perv. Actually, that's a bit harsh. Not a sweaty perv, just a bit pervy. A frustrated perv? Maybe. But there was definitely a slight degree of some sort of perviness at play.
Girl and her friend walked in. Girl was wearing low slung hipsters and had a gorgeous stomach and a near perfect arse. We get lots of good-looking people in here so it was nothing out of the ordinary. I smiled and said hello and she had a really sweet smile too. I said if she needs any help to just let me know, then I left them to it.
I looked up a couple of times and noticed the collection of items she was putting together... she apparently had a fondness for tiny little lycra things. Teeny little shorts and miniscule, sheer tops, and I found myself thinking in a pervy voice, "My god she is going to look so hot in those... can't wait till she comes out to show her friend."
Then I thought my god - does that make me a perv? Am I, in fact, a sweaty perv? I don't want to be a sweaty perv. But surely that thought was the thought of a total degenerate.
In the end, do you think Lycra Girl came out of the changeroom at all? No way. Not once. Each time she tried on another piece of tiny lycra she called her friend over to the changeroom, and the fact that I was disappointed by this just reinforced this whole pervy thing. Especially when I whimprered in a sweaty pervy voice, "But don't you want a guy's opinion?" (Okay, I didn't actually say that, but I thought it, and in my pervy state of mind it seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to think).
She bought loads of stuff and as she handed it all to me I totally didn't have the urge to bury my face in them, breathe in her warm body scent and go phwoar, so I figured I wasn't such a sweaty perv afterall.
I told The Dreaded One about it and asked if it made me a perv, and she said, "You're a guy. Of course you're a dirty filthy sweaty perv. Complete and utter degenerate. Like, duh."
Yesterday, though, I felt like a sweaty perv. Actually, that's a bit harsh. Not a sweaty perv, just a bit pervy. A frustrated perv? Maybe. But there was definitely a slight degree of some sort of perviness at play.
Girl and her friend walked in. Girl was wearing low slung hipsters and had a gorgeous stomach and a near perfect arse. We get lots of good-looking people in here so it was nothing out of the ordinary. I smiled and said hello and she had a really sweet smile too. I said if she needs any help to just let me know, then I left them to it.
I looked up a couple of times and noticed the collection of items she was putting together... she apparently had a fondness for tiny little lycra things. Teeny little shorts and miniscule, sheer tops, and I found myself thinking in a pervy voice, "My god she is going to look so hot in those... can't wait till she comes out to show her friend."
Then I thought my god - does that make me a perv? Am I, in fact, a sweaty perv? I don't want to be a sweaty perv. But surely that thought was the thought of a total degenerate.
In the end, do you think Lycra Girl came out of the changeroom at all? No way. Not once. Each time she tried on another piece of tiny lycra she called her friend over to the changeroom, and the fact that I was disappointed by this just reinforced this whole pervy thing. Especially when I whimprered in a sweaty pervy voice, "But don't you want a guy's opinion?" (Okay, I didn't actually say that, but I thought it, and in my pervy state of mind it seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to think).
She bought loads of stuff and as she handed it all to me I totally didn't have the urge to bury my face in them, breathe in her warm body scent and go phwoar, so I figured I wasn't such a sweaty perv afterall.
I told The Dreaded One about it and asked if it made me a perv, and she said, "You're a guy. Of course you're a dirty filthy sweaty perv. Complete and utter degenerate. Like, duh."
Monday, August 28, 2006
On Air
Went to the Earthdance launch party on Saturday night after work. Was bloody fun. Caught up with so many doofers, danced my arse off, drank lots of beer. The highlight for me was when I picked up my beer from the ledge on the DJ booth, I caught the eye of the DJ and gave him a thumbs down, pulled a sour face, let him know that the music he was playing sucked arse. The dance floor was rammed and the music was excellent. He totally fell back laughing. Gave one of those clutch the sides, head-tipped back, hearty jobs. It was bloody satisfying. Does it get any better than making someone laugh like that? He's a friend, just not one that I know all that well. Glad he was on the right wavelength.
Ooh - if you live in Australia, pick up a copy of the current issue of Men's Health. Page 96, feature about tattoos by me. It's my second feature for them, both have been outside their regular story types, which is satisfying.
Right. Have to try to put my links back after this silly business with blogger going down.
Ooh - if you live in Australia, pick up a copy of the current issue of Men's Health. Page 96, feature about tattoos by me. It's my second feature for them, both have been outside their regular story types, which is satisfying.
Right. Have to try to put my links back after this silly business with blogger going down.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Off Air
I am having major dramas with this blog. I cannot open the main page. I cannot log onto any other blog that ends in blogspot.com. Fuckers. Other people have had the same problems. I've tried changing the template, fiddling with the feeds, whole bunch of stuff but I I can't get it working. Apparently others can see my blog, I can't. Any other website is fine, blogger homepage is fine, just not blogger's blogs.
Until I can get it sorted, there will be few posts. Might have to give this one away and start a new one somewhere more reliable, which is pooh.
Sorry. Bye for now.
Quick.
Until I can get it sorted, there will be few posts. Might have to give this one away and start a new one somewhere more reliable, which is pooh.
Sorry. Bye for now.
Quick.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
"Earthquake In Antarctic, Penguins Affected."
Saw the above headline on MSN. Clicked on it because, you know, it's penguins. The story basically said that the earthquake was so remote and so deep under the Earth's frozen surface that no humans would have felt it. An expert (in remote and deep subterranean earthquakes, I suppose) went on to explain, "It probably just frightened a few penguins."
There should be more headline humour like this in more mainstream media.
There should be more headline humour like this in more mainstream media.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Talking Loud, Saying Nothing
Still no time to blog, been spending too much time in my (rather fetching) chef's uniform. Also been spending too much time on buses lately, and what the fuck is wrong with people and their mobile phones on public transport? Buses used to be quiet, meditative places. A little capsule you could sit in, gaze out the window and think about stuff. Or you could pull out a book and indulge in the luxury of a bit of a read. And not just newspapers but fiction. Don't know when reading fiction started being a luxury for me, but it is.
Now you get on a bus and every fucker is talking into their phone, and I've yet to sit in on a conversation that can't wait until said fucker gets the fuck off the bus. Currently I am really getting into Jeff Noon's Vurt, and there is always some oyster brain telling their phone about their job or what they plan to do for the weekend or how funny some movie is... FUCK OFF!
Tomorrow, I rebel. For tomorrow, I read Jeff Noon's Vurt... out loud.
Busy week, but wrote this, for anyone interested in a very good play showing at a cool little theatre in Sydney.
Now you get on a bus and every fucker is talking into their phone, and I've yet to sit in on a conversation that can't wait until said fucker gets the fuck off the bus. Currently I am really getting into Jeff Noon's Vurt, and there is always some oyster brain telling their phone about their job or what they plan to do for the weekend or how funny some movie is... FUCK OFF!
Tomorrow, I rebel. For tomorrow, I read Jeff Noon's Vurt... out loud.
Busy week, but wrote this, for anyone interested in a very good play showing at a cool little theatre in Sydney.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
The Hilt
No time to blog. Just wanna say, Paris Hilton has made an album? Fucking hell. What next? I think The Hoff and The Hilt should make babies. I think that would be very funny.
It would also be funny if everyone started calling Paris hilton 'The Hilt' in honour of The Hoff who is an equally silly sleb, but if that happens, remember that you read it here first.
It would also be funny if everyone started calling Paris hilton 'The Hilt' in honour of The Hoff who is an equally silly sleb, but if that happens, remember that you read it here first.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Cold Mashed Potato
I just ate a bowl of cold mashed potato and told myself that it really wasn't a bad as I expected it to be. Ate the whole lot, went yum.
Then I thought to myself, you lazy fucking fucker. You didn't really enjoy that as much as you're pretending to, did you. Well no, not really, I admitted to me. You were just too lazy to get up and put it in the microwave oven for a couple of minutes, weren't you. Yes, I was. Lazy, lazy bastard.
The conversation with me about the cold mashed potato made me think about my writing. I've been telling myself that I'm writing all these theatre reviews as a way of studying them before writing my own play. This may be true in part, but then I'm putting energy into trying to get better paid review and feature writing work rather than putting any effort into writing something creative myself. It's either laziness or fear of failure.
I'm out of practice. I feel like I'm not going to come up with anything worthwhile, so I'm copping out. That's what I'm doing, isn't it. Yes, it is. Well what am I going to do about it? Huh? HUH?
Cold mashed potato really isn't all that bad.
Then I thought to myself, you lazy fucking fucker. You didn't really enjoy that as much as you're pretending to, did you. Well no, not really, I admitted to me. You were just too lazy to get up and put it in the microwave oven for a couple of minutes, weren't you. Yes, I was. Lazy, lazy bastard.
The conversation with me about the cold mashed potato made me think about my writing. I've been telling myself that I'm writing all these theatre reviews as a way of studying them before writing my own play. This may be true in part, but then I'm putting energy into trying to get better paid review and feature writing work rather than putting any effort into writing something creative myself. It's either laziness or fear of failure.
I'm out of practice. I feel like I'm not going to come up with anything worthwhile, so I'm copping out. That's what I'm doing, isn't it. Yes, it is. Well what am I going to do about it? Huh? HUH?
Cold mashed potato really isn't all that bad.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Extras
I haven't been excited about a telly show for ages, but the new Ricky Gervais series Extras sounds good. Anyone seen it? It starts in Sydney on Wednesday. Should be fun.
Also, I read a review about this show and the writer was going on about the viciously cruel humour and everything, kind of saying that it's so ground-breaking. I dunno. For the style it is, I recall Best In Show and Waiting for Guffman. That squirmy'because-it's-true style of comedy.
Still, I'm sure it's going to be funny.
Also, I read a review about this show and the writer was going on about the viciously cruel humour and everything, kind of saying that it's so ground-breaking. I dunno. For the style it is, I recall Best In Show and Waiting for Guffman. That squirmy'because-it's-true style of comedy.
Still, I'm sure it's going to be funny.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Negativity
I did an email interview with a prominent playwright this week. In reading up on him I came across a story about him punching someone who had said some negative things about him. The original story I read said that he hit the guy because he had written a negative review, but the playwright insisted that the reviewer had actually made some racist remarks and that was why he'd popped him. Fair enough.
Either way, I thought I'd ask what he thought about reviewers, and his answer was "I haven't read a review in years because quite simply most reviewers can't tell the difference between the written work and the performance."
Is it just me, or is that answer a bit bigger than it first seems? In reviewing, aren't we looking at everything? We're listening to the written work and we're watching the performance. It's quite possible for an excellent script to be mangled by bad actors, but you'd probably still recognise that the dialogue was good.
And then I wondered if he wasn't somehow blaming any bad reviews on the performance. Like someone giving a bad review should be able to tell, if they had half a brain, that it wasn't the script's fault. Weird, if that's what he was saying, because he works with top flight people.
I thought it was an interesting comment anyway. Wonder what most reviewers will think about it.
Went to the opening of a play last night. Pretty bleak stuff. Good overall, just bleak. Right towards the end a pretty important prop fell down. Huge curtain pulled right across the stage just completely fell down and fucked things up. Someone was doing some death stuff or something and suddenly the audience is stifling sniggers and the actors are trying not to smirk. Funny shit.
I got an email from the company director who was one of the actors on stage at the time. She said she really wanted me to write an honest review even if it is negative. Said she saw me in the audience but didn't come out after the show because she was in hiding. Said she'll still talk to me even if I write a bad review. I think she was amused by it (the curtain played a huge part in her final scene - a death scene) but also thought it was about the worst thing that could have happened.
I thought that was a really cool thing to do. Some people are just cool in small, really cool ways. She gave me the greenlight to rip the shit out of the play, so that's what I did.
(Kidding).
Either way, I thought I'd ask what he thought about reviewers, and his answer was "I haven't read a review in years because quite simply most reviewers can't tell the difference between the written work and the performance."
Is it just me, or is that answer a bit bigger than it first seems? In reviewing, aren't we looking at everything? We're listening to the written work and we're watching the performance. It's quite possible for an excellent script to be mangled by bad actors, but you'd probably still recognise that the dialogue was good.
And then I wondered if he wasn't somehow blaming any bad reviews on the performance. Like someone giving a bad review should be able to tell, if they had half a brain, that it wasn't the script's fault. Weird, if that's what he was saying, because he works with top flight people.
I thought it was an interesting comment anyway. Wonder what most reviewers will think about it.
Went to the opening of a play last night. Pretty bleak stuff. Good overall, just bleak. Right towards the end a pretty important prop fell down. Huge curtain pulled right across the stage just completely fell down and fucked things up. Someone was doing some death stuff or something and suddenly the audience is stifling sniggers and the actors are trying not to smirk. Funny shit.
I got an email from the company director who was one of the actors on stage at the time. She said she really wanted me to write an honest review even if it is negative. Said she saw me in the audience but didn't come out after the show because she was in hiding. Said she'll still talk to me even if I write a bad review. I think she was amused by it (the curtain played a huge part in her final scene - a death scene) but also thought it was about the worst thing that could have happened.
I thought that was a really cool thing to do. Some people are just cool in small, really cool ways. She gave me the greenlight to rip the shit out of the play, so that's what I did.
(Kidding).
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Pair On
Someone was telling me that they were having computer issues and called up a help desk They got someone with a thick Oirish accent. The conversation went something like this:
Not Oirish Person: "Hello. I'm having trouble with my computer and hoped you might be able to help me."
Oirish Person: "What seems to be the problem?"
Not Oirish Person: "It's just not working. I want it to be on and it's not on. I need it to be on."
Oirish Person: "Okay, first of all, have you paired up?"
Not Oirish Person: "Excuse me?"
Oirish Person: "I said have you paired up?"
Not Oirish Person: "I'm sorry - I have no idea what you mean by pairing up. I've never heard of that before. What does it mean?"
Oirish Person: (exasperated) "You know. The pair! At the pair point! Have you switched the pair on!"
Not Oirish Person: "Hello. I'm having trouble with my computer and hoped you might be able to help me."
Oirish Person: "What seems to be the problem?"
Not Oirish Person: "It's just not working. I want it to be on and it's not on. I need it to be on."
Oirish Person: "Okay, first of all, have you paired up?"
Not Oirish Person: "Excuse me?"
Oirish Person: "I said have you paired up?"
Not Oirish Person: "I'm sorry - I have no idea what you mean by pairing up. I've never heard of that before. What does it mean?"
Oirish Person: (exasperated) "You know. The pair! At the pair point! Have you switched the pair on!"
Monday, August 07, 2006
Census Night - Woo Hoo!
It's census night in Australia and we have to tell the government who we are and what we do, and it's just drawn my attention yet again to the way in which I just never cooperate so that I can be neatly categorised. Left school in year 10, got a trade certificate in bricklaying, have no higher education, currently divide my time between freelance writing (I'm a sole trader), working in my clothing shop (I'm a company director... sounds nice but half the time we can't afford to pay ourselves even basic shop assistant rates), and doing food prep and service at the Sydney Opera House (I'm an employee)... like, my main job last week monetarily was the three days I cooked, I probably spent most of my time thinking about shop stuff, but my main job as far as interest and motivation goes is writing. It's completely pointless my filling the damn thing out. There should be a box to check that allows people like me to be exempt because information gathered about me is utterly useless. AND they've asked for the address of my main place of work last week. Who the hell knows the address of the Sydney Opera House?
Okay okay, the address is probably Bennelong Point, Sydney Harbour, I just felt like a bit of a rant. Don't like being asked so many questions that appear to have been designed solely to point out how not normal I am. Pricks.
Okay okay, the address is probably Bennelong Point, Sydney Harbour, I just felt like a bit of a rant. Don't like being asked so many questions that appear to have been designed solely to point out how not normal I am. Pricks.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
A Review Of A Review
There is a theatre reviewer contributing to one of the things I contribute to, and his writing is so awful it makes me angry. Really angry. Urge-to-stab-marsupials angry. I can barely make it through the opening lines. In fact his opening lines are almost as bad as the closing ones, which are about as bad as everything in between. I just want to scream at the painful awfulness of it. There is no flow. He insists on breaking up as many lines as possible with parentheses containing what are clearly intended to be witty asides but which are in fact witless distractions. And fuck me the bastard loves a semicolon... semicolons are okay, but it helps if you know how to use them - and if you're not sure how to use them it's probably a good idea to keep their use to a minimum. It's like he writes his reviews, scoops up a fistful of sticky semicolons and throws them at the review, and wherever they land, well that's good enough for him.
Same goes for humour. You don't just interrupt the flow of the point you're making because you've just seen the opportunity to make some stupid little pun or irrelevant observation. In fact that's the whole problem - he's going for some avuncular old chappie tone in an obvious attempt to be likable. Well I for one don't like you one bit. Especially when you end all of your reviews with an exclamation mark. Fuck off!
Thing is, I can't be alone in my seething contempt for this guy's reviews. Others must be thinking the same. But can I tell him? Given that I write for the same publication, is it my position to tell him that his writing prevents me from finding out what he thought about the production? Would I be out of place to tell him that reading his reviews is like trying to listen to a favourite song when the reception on the radio is out of whack and in the end you'd rather turn it off?
I know a review is just a review and not a literary masterpiece, but it's gotten to the point now where I see his name and I refuse to read on... no, that's a lie. I see his name now and I read on to see if this one is more awful than the last one. Invariably, it is.
Right. Now that that's off my chest, I got me some marsupial stabbin' to do.
Same goes for humour. You don't just interrupt the flow of the point you're making because you've just seen the opportunity to make some stupid little pun or irrelevant observation. In fact that's the whole problem - he's going for some avuncular old chappie tone in an obvious attempt to be likable. Well I for one don't like you one bit. Especially when you end all of your reviews with an exclamation mark. Fuck off!
Thing is, I can't be alone in my seething contempt for this guy's reviews. Others must be thinking the same. But can I tell him? Given that I write for the same publication, is it my position to tell him that his writing prevents me from finding out what he thought about the production? Would I be out of place to tell him that reading his reviews is like trying to listen to a favourite song when the reception on the radio is out of whack and in the end you'd rather turn it off?
I know a review is just a review and not a literary masterpiece, but it's gotten to the point now where I see his name and I refuse to read on... no, that's a lie. I see his name now and I read on to see if this one is more awful than the last one. Invariably, it is.
Right. Now that that's off my chest, I got me some marsupial stabbin' to do.
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