The Funniest Man In The World Tells A Funny Story: The Story

Ok, after being inundated with five or six yes votes, here is the story. Not sure what I think of it now. But good or bad it was shortlisted in a comp several years ago and published in a book by Allen & Unwin (and I found the copy of the book I thought I'd lost - woo hoo).

If anyone is interested in reading more, there are a few others that have been published that I don't think are too bad and which I might post here. Seems a shame that they are sitting unread in magazine pages on my bookshelf when someone out there might enjoy them.

Right. A little nervous about this, but for your reading pleasure I give you...

THE FUNNIEST MAN IN THE WORLD TELLS A FUNNY STORY


Just look at them. God how they squawk and carry on, like a flock of seagulls scavenging for the scraps on which they thrive. They would make me sick if they did not amuse me so much. They call me the funniest man in the world, but look at them, for god’s sake. If only they could see themselves from where I sit – shoving and jostling for a snippet of conversation with the most creative humorist alive (their words, not mine!), pointing those damn microphones at me like phallic offerings. And the questions. Breathtaking in their banality. What’s it like, they ask for the thousandth time, to be the funniest man in the world? Jesus gather me in your arms before I hear that question again. What do I say? Once, feeling particularly tired, a reporter asked me that very question, and do you know what I said? I asked her what it was like to have tits. The rest of them laughed, as they always do, and I thought she might take it badly. But she didn’t. She just looked down at her breasts briefly and told me that it was good, mostly. I admired her for that and replied with the same answer; good, mostly. For now I toss them some witty reply and they lap it up. Of course it matters little whether what I say is actually funny, they always laugh. At another one of these gatherings I happened to sneeze. A simple, ordinary sneeze. Do you know what they did? That’s right, they pissed themselves laughing, bloody idiots. It’s an insult that the very people who christened me the funniest man in the world can be so amused by an old man’s bodily functions. Why craft dazzling repartee when a fart can achieve the same result? Not that I don’t think there is comedy in a well placed, properly executed fart, I just think... oh here we go again. Pink Cheeks stands in his ill-fitting suit and nervously clears his throat. I lean forward in anticipation of another gem. He wants to know if I can remember (already I am working on my answer) the first moment I realised that I had a gift for knowing what is funny.
I sit back and purse my lips. He has surprised me with an original question. After facing countless questions about myself you would think I’d have encountered this one before. But no, this is the first time. I think for a moment. A story comes to mind. They look like they have time to spare, so I begin ...

The mother was fat. Not grossly obese, just mildly so. She was fat like a bunch of thick, raw sausages with skin pale and clammy to touch. She was a large, solid woman whose ugliness came from within. It showed in her sneering mouth and her cold, dead eyes. She frequently complained about the arthritic ache in her hands which sometimes became so intense she was forced to stop using them and resort to using an instrument to beat her eldest son – which was how she discovered that the fine, stiff bristles on her hairbrush could bring a satisfying speckling of blood to the boy’s soft cheek.
The woman favoured her younger son in a peculiar way. She showed her affection by encouraging him to humiliate and ridicule his brother. Naturally he went along with this, being too young to understand.
And there was the father who took the older son jogging through the bush and showed him how to split a gum leaf and whistle through it; who showed him how to skim a stone across the creek; who told him jokes and brought brief interludes of happiness to the boy’s life. Yet the father lingered like a frail shadow as the mother smashed the boy’s favourite toy.
The toy was a crane, blue and green with a yellow jib and a handle that could be wound to lift things into the air. When the boy lost the hook he made a loop out of the string and found himself placing the head of a toy dog through it like a noose. The mother discovered this and was disgusted that her son was such a ‘sick little bastard.’ She stamped the crane into a splintered mess with a thick limb of varicose vein and rubber thong, lifted him by the hair and made him stand with his nose in the corner for so long that he wet himself and collapsed with fatigue.

For reasons unknown, the family went on a trip. They drove to the Gold Coast in their dilapidated Valiant, the brothers sharing the back seat with Bernard who the mother had insisted taking. Bernard was an old mongrel who suffered chronic flatulence which added greatly to the already oppressive atmosphere inside the car. From time to time the younger brother thought it was fun to slip in a fart of his own and try to blame it on Bernard. The mother, however, was a connoisseur.
“That wasn’t a Bernard fart, that was a person fart. Now who was it?” she yelled in her hard, ugly voice. The father drove on in silence, staring at the road ahead. The younger son pointed at his sibling and the mother took several wild swings at the falsely accused, connecting sharply each time. Physical defence would only prolong the beating and was as useless as verbal defence. When silence resumed, the younger brother gazed out his window and giggled quietly to himself.

The family stopped at every tawdry tourist trap along the way. The mother was particularly fond of the ‘big’ things. The younger son loved this, finding it all so exotic, but the older one, who even at this young age was developing an acute sense of cynicism, suspected that his mother simply wanted her photo taken in front of lots of big things so that she might appear smaller.
At the Big Banana at Coff’s Harbour the older son wandered away from the family and came across a sulphur-crested cockatoo chained to a perch. At the boy’s approach the bird bowed his head forward, ruffled his head feathers and politely asked for a scratch. The boy smiled and gladly obliged. When the younger brother approached, the bird raised it crest in greeting. The younger brother decided that he wanted one of the brilliant yellow feathers and tried to pull one from the bird’s head. The bird let out a shrill screech. Then the older brother screamed in agony as his finger – still hovering conveniently by – was bitten in retribution. The mother, who could not decide between the Big Banana back scratcher and the Big Banana snow dome, turned in time to see the older son poking the eye of the younger one with a bloodied forefinger (his consequent shriek tortured with unimaginable tragedy). She ran forward to protect her favourite son.
The cockatoo was not satisfied with the small lump of finger in its beak and was furiously searching for something else to attack. A small girl watching these two boys poking each other’s eyes did not see the crazed cockatoo lunge for her gas-filled balloon. The bird, seeing the face on the balloon, believed he was attacking a human cheek. He did not expect the head to explode with such a thunder clap. He let out a final, strangled screech as he fell back from his perch.
And the father, who occasionally displayed a rather peculiar sense of humour, indulged in a secret smirk as he quickly snapped a photo. In it we see two young boys covering their own eyes whilst trying to poke out each other’s; a bawling young girl clutching a piece of string that dangles loosely by her side; a screeching cockatoo bungy jumping backwards from its perch towards death; and a large sausage-shaped woman running in from the side and wielding a souvenir back scratcher. Everyone in the photo has their mouth wide open as though they are performing some bizarre opera.

There was another photo taken of the family on that holiday, but in this one everyone is singing a very different song.
When the family finally reached its destination the mother read about a small picturesque hotel in the hinterland called Bernard’s. She decided that the family should drive there in honour of the family’s own Bernard.
As they parked the car a workman of enormous proportions requested that they park elsewhere as a mobile crane was being driven in to lift a fibreglass swimming over the building and into place out the back. The father did as he was told and the younger son made a joke about the crane really being needed to lift the workman into place. The older son sniggered, thinking of the mother’s own imposing proportions, and this brought an icy stare from those dead eyes. The family patted the dog and said goodbye, leaving him to sleep and fart in the warm car.
The building was old and made of exposed timber beams and floorboards that creaked with each step, a sound that somehow made you feel welcome. Adding to the warm ambience was the erratic hum of lunch-time chatter, and the smell of char-grilled steak and onions. Out the back was a gang of workman looking busy, yet somehow relaxed.
“At least this Bernard doesn’t fart,” the father observed. The boys laughed at his but the mother, though she found it amusing, did not allow herself to laugh.
The family ordered lunch and drinks and went outside to find a table to sit at while the steaks were being cooked. They found one on a shady patch of lawn beneath a large coral tree that was alive with screeching rainbow lorikeets. Between the tree and the building was the hole into which the swimming pool would be gently lowered. At this moment it was high in the air, being swung ever so slowly over he roof of the hotel. Workmen scurried around communicating over small radios.
The older son winced as he bumped his bandaged finger on the table. The pain throbbed through his hand.
“What’s the matter?” the mother sneered. “Is the little boy’s finger sore?” He sarcasm was as stinging as the bristles on her hairbrush.
“Sissy faggot, sissy faggot,” the younger son chanted, looking at his mother for signs of approval.
“Shut your face,” the older boy muttered.
“Don’t you dare use language like that,” the mother spat. “You little sissy.”
“Take it easy on him,” the father said in a tone with less substance than the air he breathed.
“Sissy faggot,” the younger boy hissed once more.
The older boy felt sick as he gazed into his glass of lemonade. He watched the bubbles make their way to the top where they simply popped and became nothing. He thought that being alive was like that, only people were more unhappy than lemonade bubbles. He sat back and clenched his jaw, trying not to give in to his misery. If only he could change the sadness to hate, maybe then he could do something. But he could not hate, could only endure the relentless sickness of unhappiness.
“Look,” said the mother in that cold sharp sneer, “sissy’s going to cry!”
And then, as the boy’s eyes filled with tears of humiliation, the steaming birdshit smacked onto his forehead and ran down his cheek.
His family was delighted. His brother rolled back bubbling with laughter, his mother leaned forward, thumped the table and hurled hard, raucous laughter at him. Even his father tried to stifle a chuckle into his beer.
“Go on,” the father said, trying to sound sympathetic, “go to the bathroom and wash it off.” The boy walked towards the bathroom, wiping his face with his sleeve as he went.
There was a sudden flurry of voices carrying that unique tone of impending doom. The boy turned and watched as the large swimming pool fell silently through the air. Beneath it workmen ran in all directions, screaming “Get out of the way – she’s coming down!” The pool crashed to the ground at the edge of the hole and split neatly into two pieces. A cloud of dust shot out from under it and curled into the air as the two halves, like two halves of a clam shell, tipped apart as though in preparation to catch something.
The boy flinched. His family was concealed by a row of ferns but he knew they were not hurt. A moment later the boy knew that the workmen had not been referring to the pool, they had meant that the arm of the crane itself was coming down. The boy watched as the yellow arm swept down in a smooth, deadly arc. It smashed through the branches of the tree and bounced slightly as it thumped into the ground.
For a moment there was a strange silence, then the frantic screeching of the disgruntled lorikeets, followed by the frantic yelling of humans who weren’t sure what to do. The added weight of the extra jib, along with the off-centre angle, had caused the crane to simply tip over. The building was severed in half and out the front the forty tonne body of the crane was poking into the air at an absurd angle.
The boy ran back to his family. Only his brother had escaped injury. Both parents were buried in a splintered mess of wood and steel. His father was lying face down with his head driven into the turf by a branch of the coral tree. The mother was not quite dead yet. Her limbs were as twisted and shattered as the debris that had rained down on her. She stared into the air through the steel bars that pinned her down, her face reflecting the sickly yellow of the jib. She was in shock, her wide eyes blinking mechanically. The younger brother began to bawl as he shoved at the crane jib without enthusiasm.
And the older brother suddenly knew the meaning of irony. His big mother had smashed his little crane, and now a big crane had smashed his mother – at a place with the same name as their farting dog!
It was here that someone with a morbid sense of posterity took the other photo of the family. In it we see the faceless body of the father pushed mercilessly into the ground; the ghastly yellow face of the mother peering through the wreckage (now looking a little worried); the younger brother with his head tipped back, tears of sorrow rolling down his face as he cries to the heavens; and the older brother doubled over in raptures of delighted laughter, pointing at his mother as though she were a clown who had fallen on her bum. The scene is littered with the brilliant red flowers of the coral tree and cheerful splashes of green, blue, red and yellow of the dead rainbow lorikeets. It is an odd photo – full of such vibrant colour, full of sorrow and death, life and laughter. And irony.
Many people said that the boy in the photo (the laughing one) was ‘a little weirdo’. Many others said that he was simply in a state of extreme shock. He was not in shock and he was not weird. He simply appreciated the irony of it all.

There is silence as they look at me like puzzled children. They don’t know what to make of me. There is a sprinkling of nervous laughter which quickly subsides. They were expecting a funny story – they cannot see that my story was funny, in a funny sort of way. I decide to help them. I begin to chuckle quietly. A few of them follow my lead and pretty soon they are all laughing. They laugh without inhibition as I rock back in my chair, tears rolling down my papery cheeks. We laugh together as though we are sharing the joke of life. I think of the stories that will appear tomorrow and double over in hopeless mirth, and they laugh at my laughter.
What’s it like to be the funniest man in the world? Yes it is good, mostly.

The Funniest Man In The World Tells A Funny Story

The Funniest Man In The World Tells A Funny Story was the title of the first real story I had published. I say real because there was another flash fiction piece that had been published in a cheap little magazine but which I later realised was sub-conscious plagiarism of none other than Douglas Adams. Pretty embarrassing when I re-read Hitchiker's Guide and found a scene that was eerily close to my little story. So we won't talk about that one, okay?

But The Funniest Man was a nice little chunk of fiction that was shortlisted for a pretty prestigious competition and published in a very nice looking book. I've just checked my bookshelf and found that I don't appear to have a copy of the book. Thought I had it between Douglas Adams and Patrick White, but I can't find it anywhere. Bit of a bummer because it gave me a hell of a lot of happiness at the time. I used to open it and random points in the months after it was published and just read my name, my words, on real paper in a real book. I saw a copy of the book in a secondhand store once and foolishly didn't buy it.

Anyway, it just occurs to me that with the book out of print and probably only in existence on the shelves of the other shortlisted authors, The Funniest Man In The World Tells A Funny Story might never be read again. Not sure how I feel about that. Maybe if the impossible ever happens and someone wants to put out a collection of my published stories...

Until that highly unlikely time, I'm toying with the idea of posting it here. I saw it disc the other day and realised I had forgotten all about it. I read it once a few years after it came out (good God - was it 15 years ago?) and realised that although it's pretty funny (and probably owes something to my passing obsession with John Irving), it's also quite emotionally brutal. Guess you'd call it black comedy. Not sure I could write anything quite like it now. I'm not much of an emotional brute. I know when I read the story again, though, it will still make me laugh.

So. Hands up who would like to read a story called The Funniest Man In The World Tells A Funny Story?

Emo Therapy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Babes In The Wood

A long time ago, in a schoolyard far, far away... I arrived at school with a couple of platters of cakes. I thought it was cake day, a day when we sold cakes instead of doing school work. For some noble reason.

I was the only kid with cakes that day. I was the only kid not laughing at me. I was the kid who got the date wrong.

Cut to much later in life and I'm a masquerader of chefdom who has been assigned my job. I am catering for canapes for 20 people at intermission at Raymonda at the Sydney Opera House. A baby job. I arrive and there is something distantly familiar about it all... only this time my job sheet is correct, I am correct but still I have that feeling that everyone is going to be laughing at me again...

Luckily I've grown up a lot since that fateful Not Cake Day. Tonight I found a trestle table. I dragged the fucker in. I got those canapes in order. I sorted shit out and I did NOT fucking cry this time... and there were happy ballet VIPs at intermission who have no idea that the canapes had been canceled without the catering company's knowledge.

Below is my Drum Media review of a show seen last week. Fun stuff.


BABES IN THE WOOD

This version of Babes In The Wood, the original of which dates back to around 1600, follows the plight of two kids left in the care of their outback aunt. The kids will inherit the deceased father’s estate when they come of age – unless Auntie Avaricious has her way. She pays a couple of henchmen to take the children into the bush and murder them. It’s quite remarkable how faithful to the story this modern rendition is, at the same time as being another creature altogether.

The story is told by a traveling troupe of panto crazies with Max Gillies heading the troupe as the all singing, all drinking (mis)representation of Australian womanhood. The ensuing hour and a half or so is a sometimes hilarious drunken stumble through a vaudevillian interpretation of what it means to be ‘strayin’. Not much is held sacred here... in fact nothing is, except the right to rip the piss out of whatever needs the piss ripped out of it. And that’s bloody everything.

The dark story of the abandoned children is told with all the hammy overacting you’d expect of a real traveling family sideshow, but we also see the cracks in the troupe itself as personal politics break into the performance, as well as the actors breaking out of character. At one point Aunty Avaricious cops a hit to the groin and doubles over and the other actor says in concern, “Shit Max – are you all right?”

Random events throughout Australia’s cultural and political history are presented as defining moments with the whole show peppered with surreal and unexpected vignettes (here’s six words I bet you never thought you’d see together: Amanda Vanstone & Nutbush City Limits). References include: the children overboard fiasco; the Australian Wheat Board debacle; terrorism hysteria; David Hicks; neglected Aboriginal history... the list goes on, and it’s mostly very funny. It’s all very silly – yes, including the brief scene where St Steve, Patron Saint Of Crikey, dies doing what he loves doing and Germaine Greer sings over his corpse. However she doesn’t get the last laugh; we do.

Imaginative set design, fine physical buffoonery, silly songs (and some not so silly), Babes In The Wood takes some serious issues... and has them sit on whoopee cushions.

Until 23 December, Playhouse, Sydney Opera House

Quick

Psytrance Makes Grumpy Happy

Following on from the last post... I picked The Dreaded One up from the Opera House at 11pm, pretty well not in the mood for driving two hours into the bush to party. She also felt like staying in, having finished a 13 hour day, and just going to the theatre company's drinks in the park the following day.

We chatted about the day over a couple of drinks, and at about 2.30 am our mood totally changed. We rang a friend to ask if she was going and suddenly it was action stations baby, doof was go.

We left at around 3am, drove to somewhere you'd never bother going under normal circumstances, arrived while it was still dark but with the hint of the light of the day ahead, and we partied. I had been worried that I was out of practice and made jokes about the need for a stomping workshop for people who had forgotten how to stomp, but stomping is like riding a log... falling off a bike... whatever it is.

Loads of laughs - especially as when I had been at the theatre on Thursday night with a friend, we'd had an earnest discussion about how there was so much more to life than partying and that we weren't going to this one because we're all grown up now and there is just plenty of other stuff to do. And she was at the party and so was I. Hopeless.

Danced like a mad fucker as the sun came up. Met a guy called Jesus. Decided he should get a T shirt made up saying "Psytrance Makes Jesus Happy." Have since decided to get a shirt made up that says "Psytrance makes Grumpy Happy." (Grumpy being one of my writing names).

Too much silliness to cover here, but there was lots of laughter, lots of dancing, some good conversation in the quiet moments. Turned into a clear, hot day shortly after I got my purple poncho from the car. Got sunburned. Producer friend turned up just as the DJ playing at the time happened to be playing his track. Excellent timing. Producer friend's smile was a high beamer.

The beauty of it all was that the party was finishing at mid-day which meant there was still time to make it back to Sydney and to the theatre company drinks in the park thing.

We were both pretty shattered but the drinks thing was still going so we grabbed some bubbles and headed back out. Most of them had gone but some of the main people were there and it was really cool to see them. I still get a good vibe from them and think they are very funny people. There is something about the British sense of humour that really appeals to me, and I was surrounded by British accents. It was getting dark and it was time to draw the curtain on the weekend. Said goodbye, was given an invitation to a house warming party which I'll probably go to next Saturday while The Dreaded One is working.

Stopped at a favourite pizza place on the way home and by the end of the pizza we were both saying very little and eating at times with our eyes closed. It is possible to sleep-eat, it would seem.

Woke up on the couch this morning feeling sore and vague, but in a good way. Will I ever grow up? Nah.

A Tale Of Two Parties

Major fucking dilemma. Not a major dilemma about fucking (as in "which of my harem of super models am I going to do first?" That is a dilemma I am probably never going to face).

No, this is a very real dilemma.

Yesterday I received an invitation to a theatre company's Christmas party. I've written about this company here before. I like what they do a lot and have written some good reviews of their productions. I think I even saw one of my reviews framed last time I was there. I like the people involved on a personal level too, even though I don't know them very well. It's a vibe thing. They seem like good people. But I've always felt a bit thing about getting too friendly with them because I'm a reviewer and I have to remain... I dunno, cold and detatched, not warm and friendly. Something like that.

So on one hand I feel I have to say thanks but no thanks because even if my reviews are objective (I once did give them a bit of a flat review) what if someone like my editor or the other reviewers find out that I hang out with the theatre company? Would a reader trust my review if they knew I got pissed with the theatre company?

One one of the other hands (because there are several hands in this dilemma), what if I pass up this opportunity? They are really cool creative types who will be drinking wine and mucking about in Centennial Park, a favourite haunt of mine, and we might just hit it off. And if other reviewers go it would be fun to meet them too because I don't know any other theatre reviewers.

But what if I am the only reviewer to show up because the others know the importance of maintaining a professional distance?

But what if I am the only reviewer who doesn't show up? Will that be seen as a snub? Maybe it really is a genuine gesture of thanks and not merely an opportunity to manipulate us into always giving favourable reviews.

What do I do?

Add to this the fact that The Dreaded One and I have been working our butts off and had been talking about going to a doof that's being talked about. First quality one in ages. She wants to go straight after work tonight, party all day tomorrow, come back Monday. I've come over all grown up and don't think it's a good idea to arrive at the end of the weekend feeling exhausted when we're both facing another week of long shifts. Besides, there's all this domestic stuff to do that we've been neglecting due to time constraints. Shopping. Cleaning. There are pieces of paper to be dealt with.

Plus I'm a little over that feeling of having to be somewhere I'm currently not.

Plus I'm not sure missing the Christmas party is something I want to do. I'm not a networking type, but one of the theatre company's backers is someone I did some freelance work for a while ago and he'll probably be there. We lost contact, and this could be a good opportunity to re-establish contact in case he needs a freelancer.

But this is looking like a very good doof. Friends who haven't been out all year are making the effort. I know this because a friend just asked me to look up the details of the party and now I know just how much excitement is being generated and I want to go.

What do I do?

Rejection

Yesterday I received a rejection of a poem I sent off ages ago. I'd forgotten all about it. It was a silly thing I wrote in Spain earlier this year and it made me realise what a big year this has been. I wrote the poem in Barcelona while drunk from the night before (wearing my purple poncho and pouring rioja at 8am and justifying my heroic level of drinking on the fact that ponchos are Mexican and Mexicans speak Spanish, therefore it was okay for me to drink like a Spaniard), and generally just drunk on the awesomeness of life. I was in Barcelona, I had been to Turkey, I had quit my job, I had no idea where I was going that day or for the rest of the year. This was a reckless and irresponsible time even by my standards. When you're not qualified for a Goddamned thing, it's probably not advisable to quit the secure job you stumbled into as an editor of a magazine. And yet...

Anyway, I've been so busy with my latest leftfield change of occupation that I've all but forgotten what writing meant to me. In the same way I managed to pretend to be an okay sub-editor and managed to bluff a few people that I had a clue about dance music and managed to dress up my peculiar way of seeing the world as humour, I'm now somehow managing to pick up enough knowledge on the run to convince a few people that I'm some kind of chef. How the fuck do I get myself into these things?

But the writing, Quick, what about the writing? Is that it? Have you written all you are going to write? Are you really satisfied with what you have achieved?

I sometimes tell myself that yes, I have proved my point. A national short story award five years ago, a string of short stories in respected publications. My own humour column and a regular stream of theatre reviews, since deciding earlier in the year that I wanted to be a theatre reviewer, these are good things. Especially for someone who left school at 16 and has not studied.

But today I'm not sure I believe that this is enough. It's not good enough to say that's enough, no need for any more.

The rejection of my silly little Haiku called Bareclona made me miss the whole process of writing. I used to love getting those rejections because it was one more fucker to prove wrong.

I used to wonder why I wrote. Now I'm wondering why I don't.

What Day Is It?

Huh? What day is it?

Little Shop Of Happiness

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buns Of Steel

It is 3.30 am. I just did a stressful and strenuous 15 hour shift, and I fucking loved it. I am weary but not sleepy. I should sleep... no I am kind of sleepy... also, the job is physically... erm... physical, and as a consequence I am pretty sure I am losinh weight. I am pretty sure my utocks on the back of my bum when I look in the mirror are looking quite pert.

Ooh. The beer is a lot stronger at this time of the night. Best go.

So that's goonight from me and my amaxzingly pert buttock

Cheers,

Quick

Lords Of The Land

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

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

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

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

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

My Office

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

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

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

The Trestle At Pope Lick Creek

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



THE TRESTLE AT POPE LICK CREEK

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Super Friends

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

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

Grumpy

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

The Ring

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"$2.50," I tell her.

"Oh. I only have $2."

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

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

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

"I want a flashing smiley ring."

"Me too."

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

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

Quiet Music For Quiet People

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

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

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

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

SWEET MELANCHOLY

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

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

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

One clumsy intruder is instantly enchanted.

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

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

Ah. Easy.

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

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

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

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

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

Feasting On Flesh, And The Lovely Inga Liljestrom

Here is my Drum Media review of Feasting on Flesh.

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

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



FEASTING ON FLESH

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

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

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

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

And there was Gotye live.

At The Studio, Sydney Opera House until 18 November.

Blue Steel

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

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

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

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

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

Me In A Nutshell

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

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

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


TEAM TSUNAMI PROFILE QUESTIONS

Name: Grumpy

Age: Ageless. I am immortal. Seriously.

Star sign: The fish one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

All time favourite movie: Withnail & I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What shits you? Small minded people with big mouths.

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

Lush

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

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

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

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

"Ah." Okaaaay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Tomorrow

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Invitation

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

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

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

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

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

Crap Friends & My Weird Resume

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Restaurant reviews eh?"

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

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

Wicked

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

Cue Chris Isaak...

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

It's strange what desire will make foolish people do

I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you

I never dreamed I'd love somebody like you

I don't want to fall in love

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

What a wicked game to play

To make me feel this way

What a wicked thing to do

To let me dream of you

What a wicked thing to say

You never felt this way

What a wicked thing to do

To make me dream of you

And I don't want to fall in love

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

I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you

I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you

No I don't want to fall in love

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

This world is only gonna break your heart

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.

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.