For a while there it was looking very much like I was going to have to dash from the kitchen across the loading bay to the green room of the Sydney Opera House to interview a ballet choreographer whilst wearing my chef outfit. If you had told me at any stage in the past that such a thing could happen I would have bitch-slapped you for being so silly.
However we've managed to organise schedules so that we'll have a chat tonight over the phone whilst drinking a glass of wine.
I'm having a shit of a time deciding what to wear though.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Sunday, April 15, 2007
A Review(ish)
Quite a mad weekend. Newtown Theatre didn't go ahead with The God Of Hell due to bugger all people turning up. Major pisser because it's a Sam Shepard play and I was in the mood for some black comedy. Also, the review is due at the mag first thing Monday morning. The column space was allocated so I wrote a ranty review(ish) below.
After the show not going on, The Dreaded One and I went out for a quiet dinner. A good friend was smashed in New Zealand and was totally text-pestering me to go meet her new man who is in Sydney for a few days. His name is Pino. He is Italian of Somali descent. After relenting and meeting him, I now think of him as Pino Noir. Not very PC, but that's all right, innit.
Had nice pleased-to-meet-you drinks and decided after much indecision to go home and go to bed and go to sleep and not go to the Infected Mushroom gig. I made it all the way home before caving in to that feeling that I was missing out. Changed clothes and went to the Infected Mushroom gig.
It was a good decision. Fumbled at the door and the bouncer asked for ID, and I didn't have ID because the really funky clothes I had changed into don't accommodate a wallet and I just didn't think about the ID thing. The Dreaded One had sensibly gone to bed which is a bummer because she would have reminded me about the ID thing.
Anyway, I started heading home AGAIN thinking this was silly after all and whoooeee I'm a little bit dwink. But then I turned around and decided to loiter because sooner or later someone would rescue me and somehow I would be inside pretty soon.
Katie Pooh-Foot (Most Gorgeous Woman In The Forest) came and rescued me. Big hug. Took me by the hand and lead me past those evil bouncers and I was inside and apparently not on the guest list but the door bitc... door girl recognised me and waved me into the capacity-filled venue and I am very lucky. Many lovely friends inside.
It was mental and very funny.
The end.
Here's the review(ish).
IT MIGHT NOT BE ALL RIGHT ON THE NIGHT
This column space was meant to be a review. And a review it is... of sorts.
On Friday night I arrived at the theatre to be told that in spite of the age-old adage about shows going on, the show might not, in fact, be going on. Erm... ‘scuse me?
“It’s just that there aren’t very many people here and it might not be worth our while to put the play on. We’ll know in the next 20 minutes or so, so if you’d like to have a drink and take a seat, we’ll let you know.”
I wasn’t sure how to react to this. So I bought a couple of glasses of wine, sat down in the – no getting around it – quite empty theatre foyer and tried to suss out just how I did feel about it. I felt for the theatre because theatre types are usually dedicated to the cause and I just want all the good ones to succeed. However I also felt niggly bit of pissiness because I truly believed that theatre types really believed that the show must go on. I thought they were troupers. I thought they pulled themselves up by their boot straps (whatever that means). Stiff upper lip. On with the show. (Just don’t mention the Scottish play). Etc.
I’ve sat in pathetically small opening night audiences to see real actors giving their heart to the performance as though it was a full house they were playing to. Lack of bums on seats be damned, they obviously thought, I am going to own this audience tonight, they will remember this; I am going to treat them like a real and full audience.
Those performances have been remembered and have been raved about.
Imagine taking a seat at a restaurant and being told, “Look – we’re not sure we’ll be able to feed you tonight. Have a drink and if a few more people show, no worries, we’ll stay open. Letchya know in twenty.”
Set design? Done. Rehearsals? Done. Make-up and wardrobe? Done. All performers present and accounted for. Isn’t a small audience better than no audience?
So much for art for art’s sake. I guess there was something nice on telly everyone wanted to get home to watch.
LB
After the show not going on, The Dreaded One and I went out for a quiet dinner. A good friend was smashed in New Zealand and was totally text-pestering me to go meet her new man who is in Sydney for a few days. His name is Pino. He is Italian of Somali descent. After relenting and meeting him, I now think of him as Pino Noir. Not very PC, but that's all right, innit.
Had nice pleased-to-meet-you drinks and decided after much indecision to go home and go to bed and go to sleep and not go to the Infected Mushroom gig. I made it all the way home before caving in to that feeling that I was missing out. Changed clothes and went to the Infected Mushroom gig.
It was a good decision. Fumbled at the door and the bouncer asked for ID, and I didn't have ID because the really funky clothes I had changed into don't accommodate a wallet and I just didn't think about the ID thing. The Dreaded One had sensibly gone to bed which is a bummer because she would have reminded me about the ID thing.
Anyway, I started heading home AGAIN thinking this was silly after all and whoooeee I'm a little bit dwink. But then I turned around and decided to loiter because sooner or later someone would rescue me and somehow I would be inside pretty soon.
Katie Pooh-Foot (Most Gorgeous Woman In The Forest) came and rescued me. Big hug. Took me by the hand and lead me past those evil bouncers and I was inside and apparently not on the guest list but the door bitc... door girl recognised me and waved me into the capacity-filled venue and I am very lucky. Many lovely friends inside.
It was mental and very funny.
The end.
Here's the review(ish).
IT MIGHT NOT BE ALL RIGHT ON THE NIGHT
This column space was meant to be a review. And a review it is... of sorts.
On Friday night I arrived at the theatre to be told that in spite of the age-old adage about shows going on, the show might not, in fact, be going on. Erm... ‘scuse me?
“It’s just that there aren’t very many people here and it might not be worth our while to put the play on. We’ll know in the next 20 minutes or so, so if you’d like to have a drink and take a seat, we’ll let you know.”
I wasn’t sure how to react to this. So I bought a couple of glasses of wine, sat down in the – no getting around it – quite empty theatre foyer and tried to suss out just how I did feel about it. I felt for the theatre because theatre types are usually dedicated to the cause and I just want all the good ones to succeed. However I also felt niggly bit of pissiness because I truly believed that theatre types really believed that the show must go on. I thought they were troupers. I thought they pulled themselves up by their boot straps (whatever that means). Stiff upper lip. On with the show. (Just don’t mention the Scottish play). Etc.
I’ve sat in pathetically small opening night audiences to see real actors giving their heart to the performance as though it was a full house they were playing to. Lack of bums on seats be damned, they obviously thought, I am going to own this audience tonight, they will remember this; I am going to treat them like a real and full audience.
Those performances have been remembered and have been raved about.
Imagine taking a seat at a restaurant and being told, “Look – we’re not sure we’ll be able to feed you tonight. Have a drink and if a few more people show, no worries, we’ll stay open. Letchya know in twenty.”
Set design? Done. Rehearsals? Done. Make-up and wardrobe? Done. All performers present and accounted for. Isn’t a small audience better than no audience?
So much for art for art’s sake. I guess there was something nice on telly everyone wanted to get home to watch.
LB
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Comatose With Desire.
Check this out. Go to the bit about the latest review. It's mine. No others. Just mine. Me.
But it gets better. I wrote to the divine Miss MM and mentioned that I am thinking about writing a song dedicated to her called Comatose With Desire. This is her reply:
"My dear, sorry I have been so slow to write back! Your review is divine, and simply had to go up there! Thank you!
Can you hurry up with "Comatose With Desire?" - I could premiere it in NY for the David Bowie gig!!!! Get cracking!
bises,
your
Meow."
Right. So. I'm going to write a really really bad love song for the wonderful Meow Meow for her to perform at her David Bowie gig in New York. And I know I just repeated everything she just said in her email, but holy crap! How about that? How funny is that?
The spooky part is that I am a massive Bowie fan from way back and just yesterday before knowing that she was playing with Bowie I put on one of his comps for the first time in aaaaages. Sang my fool head off to Golden Years, Fame, Heroes etc. I would love to be in New York for that gig.
Have to go now. I have a song to work on. Lalalalalalaaaa...
But it gets better. I wrote to the divine Miss MM and mentioned that I am thinking about writing a song dedicated to her called Comatose With Desire. This is her reply:
"My dear, sorry I have been so slow to write back! Your review is divine, and simply had to go up there! Thank you!
Can you hurry up with "Comatose With Desire?" - I could premiere it in NY for the David Bowie gig!!!! Get cracking!
bises,
your
Meow."
Right. So. I'm going to write a really really bad love song for the wonderful Meow Meow for her to perform at her David Bowie gig in New York. And I know I just repeated everything she just said in her email, but holy crap! How about that? How funny is that?
The spooky part is that I am a massive Bowie fan from way back and just yesterday before knowing that she was playing with Bowie I put on one of his comps for the first time in aaaaages. Sang my fool head off to Golden Years, Fame, Heroes etc. I would love to be in New York for that gig.
Have to go now. I have a song to work on. Lalalalalalaaaa...
Friday, April 06, 2007
Detour
My current post is here. Along with several other bloggers I was asked to contribute a guest post while a man called Cliff is away. I was quite surprised and pleased and surprised again to be included, given that a few of the others invited are some of my favourite bloggers. Anyway, go read, comment, hang about at This Is This and read some of Cliff's writing, as well as the other guest bloggers. You'll enjoy.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Ula & Me: A Love Story In my Stupid Head
Today, on the other hand, did treat me nicely. I have to interview this man tomorrow, which should be fun. Impressive bastard. Makes the rest of us look like oafs.
Anyway, that was a nice assignment to get. I've read a few interviews with him now and they all have a similar feel to them. I need to come up with something different. It's the cover story for the arts section of the mag I write for.
Also, this amazing woman walked into the shop. No one all day, then right on closing this goddess called Ula walked in. Holy buckling knees, Batman. Just had one of those faces you want to look at for days. Walked in while the music was thumping and looked like she was going to melt from the psytrance hit she was getting. Said whoa this is good, and started doing a little psy stomp around the shop. I smiled and went a bit melty too. Soon we were chatting and weirdly I have been at parties she has been at in far-flung places. We talked about these little places that have great three day parties, talked about music and the scene up there and the scene down here and I was just trying to think of anything I could to say so that I could keep looking at her.
At one point I noticed that she was looking past me and at her own reflection in the mirror in the changeroom and I realised not only that she was obviously vain and knew she was stunning, but I also realised that I didn't care. In fact, suddenly vanity seemed like the most radiant of virtues.
Soon she was holding my hand quite tenderly and whispering her name hotly into my ear and telling me what a thrill it was to meet a like-minded person like me and that she could tell that I am a man of integrity and sophistication, a being forged in the heavens... "I am Ula, and I am pleased to meet you."
(Okay, so maybe she just shook my hand and introduced herself, but it's my fantasy so fuck off).
In reply, my own name dribbled from my mouth.
She said something about her boyfriend not enjoying his first psytrance party and a despondent "Oh damn" also dribbled from my mouth.
"It's okay. He enjoyed the second one a lot."
"I meant damn it's unfortunate that you have a boyfriend. That really hurts, Ula."
"But didn't you say that that woman with the amazing hair who works here sometimes is your girlfriend?"
"Did I say that? Why would I say that? She's history. She's toast. Forget about her. Forget about him. Let's just think about us. You and me."
"But I was talking to the woman with amazing hair last week and she said you you do really sweet things for her."
"She lies. Lies all the time. She's has a condition."
"She said sometimes when you get drunk late at night you write Haiku about her and email them to her."
"Pfft. As if."
"She said it's pretty bad Haiku..."
"She said that?"
"Yes, but she said it made it all the more endearing."
"See thing is, Ula, I would write wonderful Haiku for you.
Haiku that would win
All of the Haiku compet
Itions round the world."
"Wow. That was really bad. Really really bad."
"I can improve. Be my muse?"
"You know - you're starting to weird me out a little."
"No I'm not. You love me Ula. Don't deny it."
"I don't love you and please stop licking my elbows."
"Don't run away Ula. Come back... come back... back... ack... ck..."
I turned around and I swear to God this other woman appeared out of thin air. Like, nothing, then Kazang! A woman! It was awesome.
"How'd you do that?" I asked, looking around for signs of a magician.
"Do what?" she asked wearily.
"Appear out of thin air like that. Are you a fairy Godmother or something?"
"I was here all along."
"No you weren't."
"Yes I was. I'm Ula's friend. I saw and heard the whole sorry thing. Dag."
"Nononono. There was just me and Ula... and rolling fields of wildflower... and a rainbow... and a unicorn. Not another living soul."
"This shit happens all the time. Whenever I'm with Ula and a male it's like I become invis -"
Kazang! No woman! Just rolling fields of wildflower and a rainbow and that unicorn and...
"Ula! My love! You've come back!"
"Ah crap," came a disembodied voice that sounded kind of familiar. "Come on Ula. Let's blow this popsickle joint. This guy's a loser."
Ula picked up the bag she'd forgotten to grab during her hasty departure and left.
The End.
Anyway, that was a nice assignment to get. I've read a few interviews with him now and they all have a similar feel to them. I need to come up with something different. It's the cover story for the arts section of the mag I write for.
Also, this amazing woman walked into the shop. No one all day, then right on closing this goddess called Ula walked in. Holy buckling knees, Batman. Just had one of those faces you want to look at for days. Walked in while the music was thumping and looked like she was going to melt from the psytrance hit she was getting. Said whoa this is good, and started doing a little psy stomp around the shop. I smiled and went a bit melty too. Soon we were chatting and weirdly I have been at parties she has been at in far-flung places. We talked about these little places that have great three day parties, talked about music and the scene up there and the scene down here and I was just trying to think of anything I could to say so that I could keep looking at her.
At one point I noticed that she was looking past me and at her own reflection in the mirror in the changeroom and I realised not only that she was obviously vain and knew she was stunning, but I also realised that I didn't care. In fact, suddenly vanity seemed like the most radiant of virtues.
Soon she was holding my hand quite tenderly and whispering her name hotly into my ear and telling me what a thrill it was to meet a like-minded person like me and that she could tell that I am a man of integrity and sophistication, a being forged in the heavens... "I am Ula, and I am pleased to meet you."
(Okay, so maybe she just shook my hand and introduced herself, but it's my fantasy so fuck off).
In reply, my own name dribbled from my mouth.
She said something about her boyfriend not enjoying his first psytrance party and a despondent "Oh damn" also dribbled from my mouth.
"It's okay. He enjoyed the second one a lot."
"I meant damn it's unfortunate that you have a boyfriend. That really hurts, Ula."
"But didn't you say that that woman with the amazing hair who works here sometimes is your girlfriend?"
"Did I say that? Why would I say that? She's history. She's toast. Forget about her. Forget about him. Let's just think about us. You and me."
"But I was talking to the woman with amazing hair last week and she said you you do really sweet things for her."
"She lies. Lies all the time. She's has a condition."
"She said sometimes when you get drunk late at night you write Haiku about her and email them to her."
"Pfft. As if."
"She said it's pretty bad Haiku..."
"She said that?"
"Yes, but she said it made it all the more endearing."
"See thing is, Ula, I would write wonderful Haiku for you.
Haiku that would win
All of the Haiku compet
Itions round the world."
"Wow. That was really bad. Really really bad."
"I can improve. Be my muse?"
"You know - you're starting to weird me out a little."
"No I'm not. You love me Ula. Don't deny it."
"I don't love you and please stop licking my elbows."
"Don't run away Ula. Come back... come back... back... ack... ck..."
I turned around and I swear to God this other woman appeared out of thin air. Like, nothing, then Kazang! A woman! It was awesome.
"How'd you do that?" I asked, looking around for signs of a magician.
"Do what?" she asked wearily.
"Appear out of thin air like that. Are you a fairy Godmother or something?"
"I was here all along."
"No you weren't."
"Yes I was. I'm Ula's friend. I saw and heard the whole sorry thing. Dag."
"Nononono. There was just me and Ula... and rolling fields of wildflower... and a rainbow... and a unicorn. Not another living soul."
"This shit happens all the time. Whenever I'm with Ula and a male it's like I become invis -"
Kazang! No woman! Just rolling fields of wildflower and a rainbow and that unicorn and...
"Ula! My love! You've come back!"
"Ah crap," came a disembodied voice that sounded kind of familiar. "Come on Ula. Let's blow this popsickle joint. This guy's a loser."
Ula picked up the bag she'd forgotten to grab during her hasty departure and left.
The End.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Jenny Fisher
My day was not nice to me. I was clumsy and at one point the arse dropped out of a box of unwashed kipfler potatoes, at another point a cranky Chinese man tried to make me work the hydraulic box-squasher but I said no because I am a (faux) chef and I am trying to set up for lunch by myself and clearly you are the hydraulic box-squasher guy... seriously, on days like today it's inevitable that you are going to arrive home without your house keys. Which is what I did.
Anyway, the manager at the nice new place appears to have it in her head that the two of us doing lunch today are The A Team. She's made noises about this before and she was quite clear about it today. I know she is going to take this to higher people and it makes me soil my pants because I am not A Team Material. This is not false modesty, it's just a fact. The other guy is A+, I am B-. It's a classic case of her seeing me in my chef uniform, maybe occasionally seeing me do something right and believing I have a clue what I'm doing. It's all quite funny but also not funny at all. I just wanted to help out a bit and have a good part time job and things are really getting out of control. If she had seen me on my knees scooping up gazzillions of rollie potatoes while hissing "fuck this shit get over here arsehole potatoes" she wouldn't think I was A Team material. F Troop, yes.
Anyway. I don't want to burden you with how not nice my day was, so I've lifted below from an email I just sent to my editor. It's a random memory that amuses me quite a lot.
At the magazine I used to work at I reckon I wrote about 75% of the letters to the editor (as well as 100% of the smart arse replies from the editor). My favourite was a series from a verbose 16 year old girl I created called Jenny Fisher who took the most convoluted way to say absolutely nothing at all. She took on a life of her own (she was quite endearing) and I started getting invitations from readers asking her out, demanding that she have her own column and everything. I sent her along to reviews too, written in her inimitable style... it was a cack. She had a fucking fan club. There was even a band who at the end of an interview said something like "Hey - we'd really like to give a shout out to Junkmail Jenny. You go girl!"
Someone in the office made a comment about how much they love Jenny Fisher's letters and I said you do know who that is, don't you? I had assumed they knew. They didn't. I told them. They shouted it to the rest of the office and everyone was genuinely crushed because they had been following her tales too. Ah, Jenny Jenny Jenny. What has become of you?
Anyway, the manager at the nice new place appears to have it in her head that the two of us doing lunch today are The A Team. She's made noises about this before and she was quite clear about it today. I know she is going to take this to higher people and it makes me soil my pants because I am not A Team Material. This is not false modesty, it's just a fact. The other guy is A+, I am B-. It's a classic case of her seeing me in my chef uniform, maybe occasionally seeing me do something right and believing I have a clue what I'm doing. It's all quite funny but also not funny at all. I just wanted to help out a bit and have a good part time job and things are really getting out of control. If she had seen me on my knees scooping up gazzillions of rollie potatoes while hissing "fuck this shit get over here arsehole potatoes" she wouldn't think I was A Team material. F Troop, yes.
Anyway. I don't want to burden you with how not nice my day was, so I've lifted below from an email I just sent to my editor. It's a random memory that amuses me quite a lot.
At the magazine I used to work at I reckon I wrote about 75% of the letters to the editor (as well as 100% of the smart arse replies from the editor). My favourite was a series from a verbose 16 year old girl I created called Jenny Fisher who took the most convoluted way to say absolutely nothing at all. She took on a life of her own (she was quite endearing) and I started getting invitations from readers asking her out, demanding that she have her own column and everything. I sent her along to reviews too, written in her inimitable style... it was a cack. She had a fucking fan club. There was even a band who at the end of an interview said something like "Hey - we'd really like to give a shout out to Junkmail Jenny. You go girl!"
Someone in the office made a comment about how much they love Jenny Fisher's letters and I said you do know who that is, don't you? I had assumed they knew. They didn't. I told them. They shouted it to the rest of the office and everyone was genuinely crushed because they had been following her tales too. Ah, Jenny Jenny Jenny. What has become of you?
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Weening
I have been slack on the posting front, haven't I? Sorry about that. I think I am weening. I am blog- weening so that I can hold hands with someone on the other side of the world as we start to write our novels. May 1st. That's when we start. It's not a competition, just a motivational thing.
But I'm pretty sure I'll win.
I'll be back with something blog-wise in the next day or two. Meantime get familiar with this guy who has kindly asked for a bunch of really funny writers and me to babysit his blog. I don't know if my This Isn't This post will be as funny as this or as funny as the purple dog, but hopefully whatever I have contributed will be smirky. Smirky in a nice way.
Also, I just watched a movie called Suburban Mayhem. Australian thing that I'm unsure about. Problem is that the theme song is called Fuck Pig, and it's really catchy. So I keep finding myself belting out in a death metal voice, "Yeeeaaaaahhhh... I'm a FUCK PIIIIIGGGG!"
Hope it doesn't happen on the bus tomorrow.
But I'm pretty sure I'll win.
I'll be back with something blog-wise in the next day or two. Meantime get familiar with this guy who has kindly asked for a bunch of really funny writers and me to babysit his blog. I don't know if my This Isn't This post will be as funny as this or as funny as the purple dog, but hopefully whatever I have contributed will be smirky. Smirky in a nice way.
Also, I just watched a movie called Suburban Mayhem. Australian thing that I'm unsure about. Problem is that the theme song is called Fuck Pig, and it's really catchy. So I keep finding myself belting out in a death metal voice, "Yeeeaaaaahhhh... I'm a FUCK PIIIIIGGGG!"
Hope it doesn't happen on the bus tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
A Nice Fuck Up
When I was at this performance a guy sat down at the table and bumped it so hard that a few glasses of wine completely tipped over. Guy was a dick, just sat down and pretended nothing had happened. The table cloth was soaked and everyone was staring in disbelief, like what the hell just happened? I said let's all lift everything off the table and at least get rid of the table cloth, which we did. The guy said sorry and stared at the as yet empty stage. Two women beside me asked what he was going to do about their wine (Dreaded One and I had a bottle, natch, which hadn't spilled). His boyfriend said it wasn't his fault. The women asked whose fault it was then. The guy pouted and said do you expect me to buy you drinks? They said that would be the decent thing to do. I couldn't believe he was trying not to. He reluctantly gave in, looking grumpily into his wallet as he left the table. The show commenced while he was away and we didn't see him again. His boyfriend glanced at his watch a couple of times but mainly laughed and enjoyed the show. God knows what happened to the bumble arse. The women murmured to each other from time to time, no doubt speculating about the what had become of their drinks. I really felt for them because they had done nothing wrong and had just had that edge taken off what was going to be (and was really) a fun night out.
At one point I leaned over and said to The Dreaded One, "I think we should offer them some of our wine."
To which she replied, "Yeah, you would."
Then last night The Dreaded One told me that she had a dream that we were at a restaurant on a beautiful sunny day and we scored a great table with a brilliant view. It was a table for six but the waiter gave it to us anyway because it was the last empty table. Then a group of six came in and she was thinking no way are we giving up our great table with its brilliant view. However I piped up and insisted that the group could have our table if there was another smaller one for us. There was another smaller table for us. It was very small and wobbly and tucked around the corner in the hallway just outside the toilets. The Dreaded One was not very happy.
I think The Dreaded One thinks I am nice, but a fuck up.
At one point I leaned over and said to The Dreaded One, "I think we should offer them some of our wine."
To which she replied, "Yeah, you would."
Then last night The Dreaded One told me that she had a dream that we were at a restaurant on a beautiful sunny day and we scored a great table with a brilliant view. It was a table for six but the waiter gave it to us anyway because it was the last empty table. Then a group of six came in and she was thinking no way are we giving up our great table with its brilliant view. However I piped up and insisted that the group could have our table if there was another smaller one for us. There was another smaller table for us. It was very small and wobbly and tucked around the corner in the hallway just outside the toilets. The Dreaded One was not very happy.
I think The Dreaded One thinks I am nice, but a fuck up.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Falsies
Oh dear. I usually pooh pooh the concept of writer's block because I've never had it, but here I am a week out from deadline for my Grumpy column and I've had three false starts today. Usually the editor reminds me about my deadline on the day and half an hour later he has something that by all accounts is reasonably funny. But he's totally cocked it up by reminding me a full week ahead of time and I've stalled.
An emo kid came into the shop today with shaved eyebrows and I thought there's my column. I mean, have you ever seen how freaky eyebrowless people look? Anyway it just didn't work. Just wasn't funny.
Then I started on about the time I was drunk and decided that my eyebrows were long overdue for a trim, and by the time I'd finished trying to even up my pruning, I was damn near eyebrowless.
That wasn't really working either. Move on from eyebrows, I decided. Eyebrows are not The Thing. There's just nowhere to go with eyebrows. And fuck it if I don't have a strange urge to shave my own eyebrows off now. Just to see how freaky I would look. Anyone dare me to shave my eyebrows off?
Anyway, my third aborted attempt is below. I dunno. Maybe I'll keep going with it, but it kind of feels like it's going nowhere either.
Grumpy
One of the things I love about being a writer is that people tell you what you should write about. It’s a crack up. There’s an Irish guy I work with who seems to think that his Irishness means that by default, he is a funny guy, a raconteur and expert on all that is funny. Erm... sorry Paddy, but the only thing that’s funny about you is your tweedlie doodlie doo leprechaun accent that’s so hard to resist taking the piss out of all the time. “Ah – so yer a wroiter are ya?” he tweedlie doodlie dooed the other day. “What sorta tings do yer wroit about den? You know what ya orta wroit about? You orta wroit about bein’ a chef, dat’s what ya should be wroitin’about.” It was extraordinary. He was absolutely dead sure he knew better than I did what I should be writing about. He hadn’t even asked to be sure (to be sure) that I wasn’t already writing about being a chef. Thing is, he's not the first to do this and I doubt he’ll be the last, but he is the easiest to rip the piss out of with some pretty cheap shots...
What do you think? Keep going or back to the drawing board?
An emo kid came into the shop today with shaved eyebrows and I thought there's my column. I mean, have you ever seen how freaky eyebrowless people look? Anyway it just didn't work. Just wasn't funny.
Then I started on about the time I was drunk and decided that my eyebrows were long overdue for a trim, and by the time I'd finished trying to even up my pruning, I was damn near eyebrowless.
That wasn't really working either. Move on from eyebrows, I decided. Eyebrows are not The Thing. There's just nowhere to go with eyebrows. And fuck it if I don't have a strange urge to shave my own eyebrows off now. Just to see how freaky I would look. Anyone dare me to shave my eyebrows off?
Anyway, my third aborted attempt is below. I dunno. Maybe I'll keep going with it, but it kind of feels like it's going nowhere either.
Grumpy
One of the things I love about being a writer is that people tell you what you should write about. It’s a crack up. There’s an Irish guy I work with who seems to think that his Irishness means that by default, he is a funny guy, a raconteur and expert on all that is funny. Erm... sorry Paddy, but the only thing that’s funny about you is your tweedlie doodlie doo leprechaun accent that’s so hard to resist taking the piss out of all the time. “Ah – so yer a wroiter are ya?” he tweedlie doodlie dooed the other day. “What sorta tings do yer wroit about den? You know what ya orta wroit about? You orta wroit about bein’ a chef, dat’s what ya should be wroitin’about.” It was extraordinary. He was absolutely dead sure he knew better than I did what I should be writing about. He hadn’t even asked to be sure (to be sure) that I wasn’t already writing about being a chef. Thing is, he's not the first to do this and I doubt he’ll be the last, but he is the easiest to rip the piss out of with some pretty cheap shots...
What do you think? Keep going or back to the drawing board?
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
IMLNWMDGTD
First actual day off in eons and I awaken to find that apparently it's International Make Loud Noises With Motor-Driven Garden Tools Day. Awesome.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Escargot
I think it's Monday night. I saw three live comedy acts last week in between the cracks of another big Faux Chef week and the reviews will be out in the mag tomorrow. I wonder what I wrote. I do know I wish I had more than 400 words for each review (which is 50 words more than I am officially allowed). I'll post the reviews here when it's appropriate. I fucking love live comedy.
Oh and get this - I'm really discreet about taking notes at comedy things because... just because. But sitting next to me at the Ross Noble gig was this fucker who was VERY PROUD to be a reviewer. You should have seen the size of the bastard's notepad. Hyooge. Huge and requiring great flourishes with each page turn. And when the lights went down he took out a fucking torch. Jesus.
Mind you, as with the Arj Barker Spastic Doodle fiasco, I also couldn't understand my notes about Ross Noble. Next time, I'm going in with one of those head lamp things so I can see what the hell I'm writing.
I'm seeing a dance performance called Glow on Wednesday, and no doubt some more comedy for the Cracker Festival. And The Dreaded One and I have the day off together on Wednesday. Man are we going to lunch hard. Hope I'm not too pissed for the 7.30 performance of Glow. Hmm. May have to do that self-restraint thingy.
Oh and get this - I'm really discreet about taking notes at comedy things because... just because. But sitting next to me at the Ross Noble gig was this fucker who was VERY PROUD to be a reviewer. You should have seen the size of the bastard's notepad. Hyooge. Huge and requiring great flourishes with each page turn. And when the lights went down he took out a fucking torch. Jesus.
Mind you, as with the Arj Barker Spastic Doodle fiasco, I also couldn't understand my notes about Ross Noble. Next time, I'm going in with one of those head lamp things so I can see what the hell I'm writing.
I'm seeing a dance performance called Glow on Wednesday, and no doubt some more comedy for the Cracker Festival. And The Dreaded One and I have the day off together on Wednesday. Man are we going to lunch hard. Hope I'm not too pissed for the 7.30 performance of Glow. Hmm. May have to do that self-restraint thingy.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Death By Nana Nap
Just finished a 60 hour week which was joined onto the previous long week and which is joined on to yet another one. Am I crazy?
I had offered to end the week by extending my Sunday shift by five hours but I was feeling a little peculiar towards the end and bailed on that.
Got the bus home instead of walking because it's a long walk and I was a little fatigued. Started to fall asleep on the bus and have weird dreams until Mr Stinky got on board.
Took all of my clothes off (I suppose you don't really need to know that bit but I can't be arsed deleting it so you'll just have to deal with that image of a nuded up Quick, okay? Also I should add that by the time I took my clothes off I was at home and not still on the bus with Mr Stinky) and went to bed for a nana nap.
Woke myself up in a panic, convinced without a doubt that if I did not wake myself up immediately I was definitely about to die in my sleep. I was groggy but happy because I had saved myself from death by nana nap yet again. I truly am my hero.
I padded ("padded" because of the bare feet, nude thing but I didn't want to remind you I was nude by saying something like "I wandered nude out to the longeroom") out to the loungeroom to watch the 6.30 news but fell into another nana nap from which I forced myself to wake yet again because of the dying thing. Phewee - another close call.
6.30 news was over and I was none the wiser so I switched over to the 7 o'clock news whereupon I was attacked with yet another deadly nana nap. Three in one afternoon is a bit much. Usually if I have a nana nap, this is the way I wake from it, but not three times in one day.
Anyway, I missed that news as well and as a result I don't know if anything is happening in the world. Maybe during my naps everything got fixed up and maybe now there's lots of water and no climate weirdness and the world is peaceful because it has been taken over by penguins. Wouldn't that be lovely?
Went out for beer. I am enjoying the beer very much as we speak. And I am wearing a sarong I bought in Lombok, so you can stop imagining me in the nude now, you smutty little readers.
Also, this morning I got a very nice email from a man in America (I think) telling me that he loved a short story which (I forgot that) I sent to him and he would like to use it in his e-zine. There are writers on his site who have novels published and everything, so it was a very nice way to start the day indeed. It's a dark crime-type story. I am about to start writing a dark crime-type novel, so this is a good sign.
Maybe my next dark crime story will be called Death By Nana Nap.
I had offered to end the week by extending my Sunday shift by five hours but I was feeling a little peculiar towards the end and bailed on that.
Got the bus home instead of walking because it's a long walk and I was a little fatigued. Started to fall asleep on the bus and have weird dreams until Mr Stinky got on board.
Took all of my clothes off (I suppose you don't really need to know that bit but I can't be arsed deleting it so you'll just have to deal with that image of a nuded up Quick, okay? Also I should add that by the time I took my clothes off I was at home and not still on the bus with Mr Stinky) and went to bed for a nana nap.
Woke myself up in a panic, convinced without a doubt that if I did not wake myself up immediately I was definitely about to die in my sleep. I was groggy but happy because I had saved myself from death by nana nap yet again. I truly am my hero.
I padded ("padded" because of the bare feet, nude thing but I didn't want to remind you I was nude by saying something like "I wandered nude out to the longeroom") out to the loungeroom to watch the 6.30 news but fell into another nana nap from which I forced myself to wake yet again because of the dying thing. Phewee - another close call.
6.30 news was over and I was none the wiser so I switched over to the 7 o'clock news whereupon I was attacked with yet another deadly nana nap. Three in one afternoon is a bit much. Usually if I have a nana nap, this is the way I wake from it, but not three times in one day.
Anyway, I missed that news as well and as a result I don't know if anything is happening in the world. Maybe during my naps everything got fixed up and maybe now there's lots of water and no climate weirdness and the world is peaceful because it has been taken over by penguins. Wouldn't that be lovely?
Went out for beer. I am enjoying the beer very much as we speak. And I am wearing a sarong I bought in Lombok, so you can stop imagining me in the nude now, you smutty little readers.
Also, this morning I got a very nice email from a man in America (I think) telling me that he loved a short story which (I forgot that) I sent to him and he would like to use it in his e-zine. There are writers on his site who have novels published and everything, so it was a very nice way to start the day indeed. It's a dark crime-type story. I am about to start writing a dark crime-type novel, so this is a good sign.
Maybe my next dark crime story will be called Death By Nana Nap.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Timing
I seem to be cursed when it comes to making it to the theatre on time. I seriously don't think that there has been a single time I've managed to live out my fantasy of strolling on in at a leisurely pace, collecting my tickets and sauntering over to the bar for a couple of civilised drinks. It just doesn't happen. Ever.
What does happen is stuff goes wrong and I invariably end up in a mad rush to make it on time, arriving at the theatre still doing up my pants and lacing up my mismatched shoes, sweating like a pedophile and hoping that this time I got the venue and time right. Just last week I had to go to this theatre and it's literally three minutes walk from my home, but did I make it on time? Well, yes, but not in the comfortable and relaxed manner I dream of. On that occasion it was just as well I hadn't arrived early because there was no bar and I would have just had more time to squirm anyway.
Last night it was just all horribly familiar. There was doubt that I would be able to make it at all due to work commitments, but I managed to get away a little early and commenced the trek home through the city on the slow bus to Surry Hills. I was going out of my head with the stress of it because I had promised The Dreaded One a lovely night out, pictured us enjoying that leisurely glass of wine and I'm stuck on a bus full of annoying people and quite obviously I'm only just going to make it again.
In the end it wasn't looking too bad. Getting off the bus instantly put me in a good mood (it was full of your usual annoying public transport types), and a bit of jogging is always good for you anyway.
I made it to the crowded theatre with just enough time to get the tickets and have a quick glass of wine. Spotted The Dreaded One looking for me, drink in hand. I joined the queue. I arrived at the counter, told the guy tickets had been put aside and told him the name of the magazine in case they had used its name instead of mine. He looked through the tickets and said there was nothing under my name.
Fuckinitalicsawithanexclamationmark.
"Erm... are you sure?"
He was sure. One thing you cannot do in such a situation is make a big deal about it. Well you can and people regularly do. What they also do is make total twats of themselves. Still, I felt like I had moved mountains to make it here on time... or at least sat on a crowded bus for too long. I have a deal with the mag that my deadline is some time over the weekend because I like to review stuff early in the season and now I was going to have nothing. I neglected to print out the email confirming my tickets because this kind of thing has not happened for so long. And I couldn't even remember the name of the person who had (dis)organised this. Fuck fuckitty fuck.
I found The Dreaded One and told her what had happened. I could see she was disappointed; we had both been looking forward to this. Not enough time to make it home and get the email. Opening night so it was probably sold out. There was nothing I could do, and all I had done was the right thing. I was so cranky I wanted to punch old ladies.
"The guy," I hissed bitterly at The Dreaded One, "looked like a complete airhead. Idiot probably got my name wrong. Malicious fucker. Fucking Nazi."
In fact people get my name wrong all the time. I forced myself to calm the fuck down because I was going to give it another shot. I had promised The Dreaded One a night at the theatre, so a night of theatre she would have. I promised the magazine a review, so a review it would have.
The guy was dealing with someone and the girl at the counter waved me over. I didn't want her because then it would look to the guy like I was trying to pull a swifty, or that I didn't trust him... which I didn't but he didn't need to know that. In fact it was tactically much better for all concerned if he didn't know I didn't trust him. I had to make friends with him and I couldn't do it by questioning his professionalism. I pretended I hadn't seen the girl with her smile and her wave and her "Excuse me sir - can I help you?" Interfering bitch.
I worked out my blag, studiously avoiding the words airhead and Nazi. The Dreaded One has cancer of the ears and this would in all likelihood the last opportunity to hear the sound of Kitty Flanagan's comedy and the resulting laughter, so if he wouldn't mind terribly much double checking about those tickets it would really mean a lot to us...
In the end I left out the bit about the ears. I had something about the deadline which I intended to mutter to him very quietly because if anyone overheard I would just sound like a blagging wanker.
Further in the end I didn't have to say anything. He smiled and said he was glad I came back because he strongly suspects that the list hadn't been sent because about three other people had the same problem. He handed over my tickets with a courteous smile that made me feel guilty that I had thought of him as a malicious fucker. The only words I had to utter were, "Oh. Thank you."
I turned back to The Dreaded One, tickets in hand, an air of satisfied smugness at the ease of my blagging victory. "I think he knew my name," I told her. "I said it quietly and clearly and I think the penny dropped. I think he knew how deep the shit was that he was easing himself into if he didn't find my tickets right bloody now..."
Her look told me I didn't have to keep going with this one.
True to form, I got the time a little wrong and we were actually two glasses of wine early, and we enjoyed a very fine night of music and comedy.
What does happen is stuff goes wrong and I invariably end up in a mad rush to make it on time, arriving at the theatre still doing up my pants and lacing up my mismatched shoes, sweating like a pedophile and hoping that this time I got the venue and time right. Just last week I had to go to this theatre and it's literally three minutes walk from my home, but did I make it on time? Well, yes, but not in the comfortable and relaxed manner I dream of. On that occasion it was just as well I hadn't arrived early because there was no bar and I would have just had more time to squirm anyway.
Last night it was just all horribly familiar. There was doubt that I would be able to make it at all due to work commitments, but I managed to get away a little early and commenced the trek home through the city on the slow bus to Surry Hills. I was going out of my head with the stress of it because I had promised The Dreaded One a lovely night out, pictured us enjoying that leisurely glass of wine and I'm stuck on a bus full of annoying people and quite obviously I'm only just going to make it again.
In the end it wasn't looking too bad. Getting off the bus instantly put me in a good mood (it was full of your usual annoying public transport types), and a bit of jogging is always good for you anyway.
I made it to the crowded theatre with just enough time to get the tickets and have a quick glass of wine. Spotted The Dreaded One looking for me, drink in hand. I joined the queue. I arrived at the counter, told the guy tickets had been put aside and told him the name of the magazine in case they had used its name instead of mine. He looked through the tickets and said there was nothing under my name.
Fuckinitalicsawithanexclamationmark.
"Erm... are you sure?"
He was sure. One thing you cannot do in such a situation is make a big deal about it. Well you can and people regularly do. What they also do is make total twats of themselves. Still, I felt like I had moved mountains to make it here on time... or at least sat on a crowded bus for too long. I have a deal with the mag that my deadline is some time over the weekend because I like to review stuff early in the season and now I was going to have nothing. I neglected to print out the email confirming my tickets because this kind of thing has not happened for so long. And I couldn't even remember the name of the person who had (dis)organised this. Fuck fuckitty fuck.
I found The Dreaded One and told her what had happened. I could see she was disappointed; we had both been looking forward to this. Not enough time to make it home and get the email. Opening night so it was probably sold out. There was nothing I could do, and all I had done was the right thing. I was so cranky I wanted to punch old ladies.
"The guy," I hissed bitterly at The Dreaded One, "looked like a complete airhead. Idiot probably got my name wrong. Malicious fucker. Fucking Nazi."
In fact people get my name wrong all the time. I forced myself to calm the fuck down because I was going to give it another shot. I had promised The Dreaded One a night at the theatre, so a night of theatre she would have. I promised the magazine a review, so a review it would have.
The guy was dealing with someone and the girl at the counter waved me over. I didn't want her because then it would look to the guy like I was trying to pull a swifty, or that I didn't trust him... which I didn't but he didn't need to know that. In fact it was tactically much better for all concerned if he didn't know I didn't trust him. I had to make friends with him and I couldn't do it by questioning his professionalism. I pretended I hadn't seen the girl with her smile and her wave and her "Excuse me sir - can I help you?" Interfering bitch.
I worked out my blag, studiously avoiding the words airhead and Nazi. The Dreaded One has cancer of the ears and this would in all likelihood the last opportunity to hear the sound of Kitty Flanagan's comedy and the resulting laughter, so if he wouldn't mind terribly much double checking about those tickets it would really mean a lot to us...
In the end I left out the bit about the ears. I had something about the deadline which I intended to mutter to him very quietly because if anyone overheard I would just sound like a blagging wanker.
Further in the end I didn't have to say anything. He smiled and said he was glad I came back because he strongly suspects that the list hadn't been sent because about three other people had the same problem. He handed over my tickets with a courteous smile that made me feel guilty that I had thought of him as a malicious fucker. The only words I had to utter were, "Oh. Thank you."
I turned back to The Dreaded One, tickets in hand, an air of satisfied smugness at the ease of my blagging victory. "I think he knew my name," I told her. "I said it quietly and clearly and I think the penny dropped. I think he knew how deep the shit was that he was easing himself into if he didn't find my tickets right bloody now..."
Her look told me I didn't have to keep going with this one.
True to form, I got the time a little wrong and we were actually two glasses of wine early, and we enjoyed a very fine night of music and comedy.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Monday Tuesday Whatday?
At one of my part time jobs (Faux Chef) I have clocked up fifty and a half hours. I am impressed with this. I have no idea what day it is. I just saw Kitty Flanagan's Festival Of Me and have to write a review for Drum Media. It was funny sometimes... oh fuck I am so tired I think "It was funny sometimes" is going to be the full extent of my review.
Also, Kitty Flanagan is another Australian spunky funny chick, like my beloved Melissa, AKA Meow Meow. The fantasies going on in my head...
If none of the above makes sense, scroll down and hopefully smirk.
Also, Kitty Flanagan is another Australian spunky funny chick, like my beloved Melissa, AKA Meow Meow. The fantasies going on in my head...
If none of the above makes sense, scroll down and hopefully smirk.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Grumpy With Grumpy
Here is my next Grumpy column for the good people at Tsunami magazine.
Grumpy
With the release of the Rocky Balboa, I decided that it was about time I had a new nickname. When I made this announcement to my girlfriend (whose nickname is The Dreaded One due to her fluro dreads), she rolled her eyes. “Um... is this going to be one of those conversations?” I wasn’t sure what she meant, so I explained my position. Just look at Sylvester Stallone. Rocky is cool, Rambo is cool, even Sly is cool. And don’t get me started on The Italian Stallion. “So you want to be called The Australian Stallion. Is that it?” I shook my head dismissively and said “Nononooo... unless you want to start calling me The Australian Stallion.” Her silent stare articulated ‘you are an idiot’ perfectly. I explained that Grumpy had never really done it for me and that I thought it was time for something a little bit cooler. Something with a bit of zing. A bit of pizazz. A bit of bingbangboom. Grumpy’s an annoying Disney dwarf at best, an inaccurate adjective at worst. “Then why,” The Dreaded One asked, “did you choose Grumpy? You chose it, you made it stick. You thought it was funny and ironic. You are Grumpy now. You can’t just change your name like that. Anyway, as nicknames go it is cool, in its own way.” That last bit made me suspicious... like when a girl tells you your willie is ‘just the right size.’ Like, come on, why not just point and laugh? Would it kill them to say ‘it’s so big it hurts, but in a really nice way...’ Where was I? Oh yeah, nicknames. I thought for a while before coming up with something I liked. “What about T-Bone?” I asked. “I am not calling you T-Bone,” she monotoned. Maybe she had a point – T-Bone is the name of one of those roided up play acting wrestlers. What was I thinking? “Okay, something a bit friendlier. How about Scooter? Can you start calling me Scooter please?” “What is wrong with you? I’m not calling you Scooter. You don’t even have a scooter.” Damn – foiled again. “If I get a scooter,” I countered after 30 minutes of intense strategic thinking, “will you call me Scooter then?” I tried rivers (Hudson), weapons (Switchblade), animals (Stingray), famous writers (Shakey), archaic writing instruments that come from birds (Quill), but to no avail. I guess in the end it was one of those conversations. The Dreaded One, it seems, is always right.
Grumpy
With the release of the Rocky Balboa, I decided that it was about time I had a new nickname. When I made this announcement to my girlfriend (whose nickname is The Dreaded One due to her fluro dreads), she rolled her eyes. “Um... is this going to be one of those conversations?” I wasn’t sure what she meant, so I explained my position. Just look at Sylvester Stallone. Rocky is cool, Rambo is cool, even Sly is cool. And don’t get me started on The Italian Stallion. “So you want to be called The Australian Stallion. Is that it?” I shook my head dismissively and said “Nononooo... unless you want to start calling me The Australian Stallion.” Her silent stare articulated ‘you are an idiot’ perfectly. I explained that Grumpy had never really done it for me and that I thought it was time for something a little bit cooler. Something with a bit of zing. A bit of pizazz. A bit of bingbangboom. Grumpy’s an annoying Disney dwarf at best, an inaccurate adjective at worst. “Then why,” The Dreaded One asked, “did you choose Grumpy? You chose it, you made it stick. You thought it was funny and ironic. You are Grumpy now. You can’t just change your name like that. Anyway, as nicknames go it is cool, in its own way.” That last bit made me suspicious... like when a girl tells you your willie is ‘just the right size.’ Like, come on, why not just point and laugh? Would it kill them to say ‘it’s so big it hurts, but in a really nice way...’ Where was I? Oh yeah, nicknames. I thought for a while before coming up with something I liked. “What about T-Bone?” I asked. “I am not calling you T-Bone,” she monotoned. Maybe she had a point – T-Bone is the name of one of those roided up play acting wrestlers. What was I thinking? “Okay, something a bit friendlier. How about Scooter? Can you start calling me Scooter please?” “What is wrong with you? I’m not calling you Scooter. You don’t even have a scooter.” Damn – foiled again. “If I get a scooter,” I countered after 30 minutes of intense strategic thinking, “will you call me Scooter then?” I tried rivers (Hudson), weapons (Switchblade), animals (Stingray), famous writers (Shakey), archaic writing instruments that come from birds (Quill), but to no avail. I guess in the end it was one of those conversations. The Dreaded One, it seems, is always right.
Screw You Guys
I haven't been posting because I keep opening the blog and looking at that image of Meow Meow (check last two posts) and it kind of stops me in my tracks. 'Kin 'ell. Is she the perfect woman? I wonder who she is. I don't care who she is - she held my hand, she made me laugh... I would use Arj Barker's sig on my spastic doodlings as toilet paper in comparison, and I treasure Arj's acknowledgment of my existence.
Also there's new job stuff to deal with and alstooaswell being right on the leaping off point of starting a novel (writing, not reading). So it's kind of been screw you guys... all three of you... totally screw you.
Also there's new job stuff to deal with and alstooaswell being right on the leaping off point of starting a novel (writing, not reading). So it's kind of been screw you guys... all three of you... totally screw you.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Meow Meow Review
Following on from the previous post, here is my review of the latest Meow Meow show, currently playing at the Sydney Opera House. I wasn't sure what the mag was going to make of it but the editor said she likes it.
MEOW MEOW
Dear Meow Meow,
As you made your elegantly disheveled appearance, clambering over the audience and making some of them carry your stuff to the stage for you while you stole their drinks, I confess to feeling tiny prickles of disappointment. Was this going to be an identical show to last year’s? However the disappointment soon vanished as I realised that there are some rare and wonderful things in life that one simply can’t get too much of. Forgotten details came flooding back and in no time at all I was again seduced by the sheer force of your personality, I was in awe of your towering ego and amazed by your musical and comical genius, and by the end of the show I was almost comatose with desire. I think I am more in love with you than you are. (Shh - it is possible). I love the way you so effortlessly tap into the simple and raw honesty of a Jacques Brel number one minute - your essence a vortex of heartbreak - then turn a song on its head the next and become the embodiment of daffiness. Your grasp of languages from East to West hints at an intelligence to match your smoldering sensuality. Clearly you have the ability to break hearts with song, yet you choose instead to interpret cabaret classics (as well as pop fluff) in comical ways, accompanied by a flexible physical repertoire that would make the great clowns weep with envy. And when not drawing heartfelt laughter from the packed room with comical interpretations, physical flirtation or an ironic disdain for your besotted audience, a spontaneous and random sight gag was pulled from your “bag of stuff”... the mannequin costume change made me smile out loud. Convinced that the volunteers you selected from the audience were paid performers, I was shocked and I swooned when you took my hand and lead me onto the stage. Remember me always as the one who dutifully thrust the lyric pages between your parted thighs... Ooh – this was meant to be a review, not a love letter. Erm... this was a brilliant night out, extra bits added to last year’s show. Mardi Gras bit was tinsely and gorgeously camp and as hilarious as the rest of the show. Go see it. She’s excellent.
Until 24 February, The Studio, Sydney Opera House.
LEE BEMROSE
MEOW MEOW
Dear Meow Meow,
As you made your elegantly disheveled appearance, clambering over the audience and making some of them carry your stuff to the stage for you while you stole their drinks, I confess to feeling tiny prickles of disappointment. Was this going to be an identical show to last year’s? However the disappointment soon vanished as I realised that there are some rare and wonderful things in life that one simply can’t get too much of. Forgotten details came flooding back and in no time at all I was again seduced by the sheer force of your personality, I was in awe of your towering ego and amazed by your musical and comical genius, and by the end of the show I was almost comatose with desire. I think I am more in love with you than you are. (Shh - it is possible). I love the way you so effortlessly tap into the simple and raw honesty of a Jacques Brel number one minute - your essence a vortex of heartbreak - then turn a song on its head the next and become the embodiment of daffiness. Your grasp of languages from East to West hints at an intelligence to match your smoldering sensuality. Clearly you have the ability to break hearts with song, yet you choose instead to interpret cabaret classics (as well as pop fluff) in comical ways, accompanied by a flexible physical repertoire that would make the great clowns weep with envy. And when not drawing heartfelt laughter from the packed room with comical interpretations, physical flirtation or an ironic disdain for your besotted audience, a spontaneous and random sight gag was pulled from your “bag of stuff”... the mannequin costume change made me smile out loud. Convinced that the volunteers you selected from the audience were paid performers, I was shocked and I swooned when you took my hand and lead me onto the stage. Remember me always as the one who dutifully thrust the lyric pages between your parted thighs... Ooh – this was meant to be a review, not a love letter. Erm... this was a brilliant night out, extra bits added to last year’s show. Mardi Gras bit was tinsely and gorgeously camp and as hilarious as the rest of the show. Go see it. She’s excellent.
Until 24 February, The Studio, Sydney Opera House.
LEE BEMROSE
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Beyond Glamour
Just saw Meow Meow. The show started off the same as the one I saw last year and at one point when she was enlisting the help of audience members I said to The Dreaded One, "They are acting too funny and being too natural. They are all plants." My tone implied that I know such things.Famous. Last. Words.
Minutes later I was dragged on stage with this utterly sexy and talented performer, holding the lyrics page while all sorts of physical mayhem went on with me and a bunch of other "plants".
At one point she crowd surfed to the back of the theatre before asking where are my lyrics, and I should have crowd surfed up there with the sheets. But fucking hell it's a bit daunting when you're not expecting to be up there in the first place.
She crowd surfed back down to the stage, kind of climbed on top of us all, did this head-height splits things with the other "plants" on stage supporting her and she prepared to sing. Looking at her rather nice, lingerie-clad arse, I thrust the lyrics sheet between her split legs for her to read, and consequently I now know what the laughter of a packed theatre sounds like from the stage.
Of the Sydney Opera House.
Cheap laugh. Nice sound.
Meow Meow is total babe and totally worth seeing. She is talented enough to let you know she can do the heart-fucked cabaret thing, but she's also got a wicked sense of humour.
Looking forward to writing the review to this one.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Faction
What do you do when you have an idea for a short story, but it's going to affect your relationship with someone? I mean, it's fiction, no question, but the germ of the thing undeniably comes from something recognisable in reality.
Quite a lot of my fiction - and probably quite a lot of fiction everywhere - comes from the idea of taking reality and stretching it out of shape, twisting it, kneading it into something different. In real life things go the way they do, but for the sake of telling a story you say, "Yeah, but what if it didn't happen like that? What if it happened like this? Or what if they had said this instead of that?"
I used to believe that real life and real people are there for the taking; that a good story is a good story and if I need to use a real moment, to hell with the consequences, I will use it.
Maybe I'm just going soft because now I'm not so sure. Do you write that story and risk affecting the relationship, or do you leave it in your head, knowing that once they read it no amount of explaining that it's just a story is going to prevent the dynamics of the relationship changing?
Just wondering.
Quite a lot of my fiction - and probably quite a lot of fiction everywhere - comes from the idea of taking reality and stretching it out of shape, twisting it, kneading it into something different. In real life things go the way they do, but for the sake of telling a story you say, "Yeah, but what if it didn't happen like that? What if it happened like this? Or what if they had said this instead of that?"
I used to believe that real life and real people are there for the taking; that a good story is a good story and if I need to use a real moment, to hell with the consequences, I will use it.
Maybe I'm just going soft because now I'm not so sure. Do you write that story and risk affecting the relationship, or do you leave it in your head, knowing that once they read it no amount of explaining that it's just a story is going to prevent the dynamics of the relationship changing?
Just wondering.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Sappy Valentine's Day
I walked into the room tonight while there was a story being shat onto the airwaves about some utter wanker in the UK who wrapped a house in a bow or something and flew his vomitous girlfriend in in a helicopter and had an excrement of a media circus waiting so that he could... what. What was he doing? He was masturbating on public television, that's what the smarmy twat was doing. Fuck - it wasn't even Valentine's Day. It's Valentine's Day here tomorrow (okay, so it's late and it's technically tomorrow now) so he'd gotten in two days early... What the crapping hell is wrong with people?
Idiot.
Idiots.
Bah.
Idiot.
Idiots.
Bah.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Pubelocks
Passerby: "Your hair is amazing!"Dreaded One: "Thank you!"
Me (dazzling all within earshot with my devastatingly sophisticated sense of humour): "That's nothing. You should see her pubes."
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Gumshoe Journalism
I have a story deadline of tomorrow, and the story has not happened. I was to supposed to do an interview with a director via email. I sent the questions to the person representing him, and she just kind of vanished. She only works office hours and I didn't get her mobile phone number before close of business on Friday. I gave her my mobile, so you'd think she would have called at some stage to ask how the questions are going, but no. Just nothing. I have nothing. Nothing but a deadline. In reality the deadline is first thing Monday morning, so I still have plenty of time to think about what a good story it would have been.
Last time something like this happened, the result was pretty funny. Maybe I should do the same again. Gumshoe Journalism? Why not.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a story to pull out of my arse.
Last time something like this happened, the result was pretty funny. Maybe I should do the same again. Gumshoe Journalism? Why not.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a story to pull out of my arse.
Friday, February 09, 2007
The Write Stuff
Right. Change of plan. Can't post any more of the story because I've just realised it's the beginning of a novel, and I'm in the mood for taking another swing at a novel. It just hit me last night and bang - stuff came together. There's 5,000 words there and it's screaming out to be the first chapter of a novel. I can have three sample chapters off to an agent in a few short months, if I set my mind to it.
So. A fast paced crime novel while at the same time trying to write a kids' picture book? Why not? Not to mention the other writing projects. (This weekend I'm writing a story about the stage adaptation of a kids book written by the princess of Japan... wacky shit, man).
Also, I officially have an agent starting the process of selling a magazine feature in the USA and the UK. I've had to send in a bio and PDFs of published work because they only deal with professionals... aaaahahahahaha... professionals and me.
Seriously though, I have to feel good about that and feel like I'm on a bit of a roll. After contacting the glossy here about copyright the editor suggested I write something for a new section they're running and I have the perfect idea. Have a couple actually.
So for the time being the blog will return to it's mostly normal program of silly twitterings and twatterings.
So. A fast paced crime novel while at the same time trying to write a kids' picture book? Why not? Not to mention the other writing projects. (This weekend I'm writing a story about the stage adaptation of a kids book written by the princess of Japan... wacky shit, man).
Also, I officially have an agent starting the process of selling a magazine feature in the USA and the UK. I've had to send in a bio and PDFs of published work because they only deal with professionals... aaaahahahahaha... professionals and me.
Seriously though, I have to feel good about that and feel like I'm on a bit of a roll. After contacting the glossy here about copyright the editor suggested I write something for a new section they're running and I have the perfect idea. Have a couple actually.
So for the time being the blog will return to it's mostly normal program of silly twitterings and twatterings.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Quick, Part Two
Out in the street it’s mild and there’s something in the air, a feeling, a vibe. Everyone is going to a party somewhere. Everyone’s happy about something. It’s Friday night in the city.
Quick walks among them. He watches them. Sometimes he smiles at them and they smile back because they think he is one of them.
He could have brought some of his own stash, but he likes to score from strangers. He enjoys the distrust and the tension, the unspoken rules of the game. He decides to hit The Lounge tonight, hasn’t been there for weeks.
But he sees a couple of guys up ahead and knows immediately that there’s something going on. They’re talking too much, saying things to passersby. Quick chews his gum and lets a certain intensity bloom inside. The intensity fills him, swells him, widens his eyes and juts his jaw. These kids will see him.
They will see me, but they won’t see who I am.
“Hey matey,” they say right on cue. “Dude.”
Quick stops walking and looks at them, smiles in just the right way. He waits to hear what they’re offering. They tell him in a too loud and brash way. Quick laughs a little and looks around and is quietly impressed with their boldness, and comforted by their stupidity.
“Where?” he asks them. “Not here,” he tells them because he thinks they might just do it out here on a crowded street. He nods to a lane up ahead and starts to walk towards it, and they fall in behind him.
The lane is dark and dirty and you can feel that countless deals have been done here. At the end they are only twenty five metres from the crowd and the light and the cars with their thumping speakers and blaring horns. But no one will see or hear, no one will care what happens.
“What have you got?” Quick asks, looking from one to the other. One wears a T shirt that says Pornstar, the other’s says Funky Nuts. Neither of them suspects a thing.
Pornstar asks if Quick has heard of Mobies.
Quick nods. “Heard of them. Haven’t tried them.”
Pornstar is pleased with this. He nods and smiles and tells Quick that Mobies are new, just imported from Amsterdam, the best on the market. Pornstar’s sidekick is starting to look a little nervous now, like this is taking too long, like he doesn’t like doing deals in dark lanes. Or like they’re a couple of scammers peddling shit.
“Show me.”
Pornstar swings his satchel around and a beat later is holding up a clear plastic bag with about twenty bright green pills in it. He fingers one out and holds it in front of Quick’s face. Quick has seen images of Mobies and thinks the whale looks authentic.
“Thing is,” Quick tells them as he relaxes his weight and rolls his shoulders. “You just can’t tell what you’re getting. These look like the real thing, but they could be shit.”
Pornstar cocks his head to the side in mock affront. He puts on an expression like he’s Quick’s new best friend.
Some jungle techno beat starts to unwind in Quick’s head. It’s a dark and primitive beat, it thumps and cracks, an ominous echo reverberates. Quick contains this. He resists movement, but it overwhelms and he feels his head move, a subtle bounce and he lets go. He lashes out at these jokers, has them by their throats before they know what’s happening. He drives them into the wall, knocks the air from their lungs. He pins them there, his head bobbing to the beat, his eyes wide, full veins bulging.
“I want the truth,” Quick tells them, glaring first at one, then at the other. They look back at him with innocent fear. They just don’t get this. They know about violence, they see it from time to time, fleetingly and in the distance, but it doesn’t feature in their world. They don’t know how to deal with it.
“Seriously man,” Pornstar stammers. “They’re the real deal. No shit.”
“Lift the bag up. Okay, now take one.”
Pornstar frowns at this. Quick looks at him hard. He can see the kid’s not on anything, not yet.
“Take the fucking Moby,” Quick says, each word a falling weight. Funky Nuts wriggles a bit, and Quick tightens his grip. He eases the pressure, however, on Pornstar’s throat. “Do it,” he says.
Pornstar fumbles about with the packet. He pinches one of the pills and holds it up for Quick to see. Then he pops it into his mouth and swallows hard. Gags a little. Opens his mouth for Quick to look inside, but there is no need.
“Now what,” Funky Nuts asks in a tight voice. “We’re gonna wait for it to kick in?”
Quick glares at him briefly, then looks back at Pornstar. “Take another one.”
Pornstar’s eyes widen a little at this. He tries to look at his friend. Quick shoves their heads against the wall. Pornstar takes another pill from the bag and raises it to his lips. His skin is pale and glistening with sweat now, and his hand is shaking. He flicks the pill into his mouth and Quick feels his Adam’s apple move up and down against his palm, feels the spasm like he might throw up.
“Another one,” Quick says with a cruel smile.
“Fuck this,” Funky Nuts mutters as he thrashes violently out of Quick’s grip. “You’ll fucken kill someone like that, you crazy bastard.” He falls to the ground and seems unable to get back up. He moves backwards on his backside, paralyzed with fear and hysteria.
Pornstar has also had enough. He twists and crouches down before pushing away from the wall. Quick wraps both arms around him, twists his right arm back. He grabs the bag of pills, twists and shoves Pornstar away. Momentum carries him forward and he falls over his mate. Quick moves in their direction, and they scramble to toward the street.
Satisfied with their authenticity, Quick pockets the Mobies and gets out of there. He knew he was going to score tonight, but he didn’t know it was going to be this much fun.
Quick walks among them. He watches them. Sometimes he smiles at them and they smile back because they think he is one of them.
He could have brought some of his own stash, but he likes to score from strangers. He enjoys the distrust and the tension, the unspoken rules of the game. He decides to hit The Lounge tonight, hasn’t been there for weeks.
But he sees a couple of guys up ahead and knows immediately that there’s something going on. They’re talking too much, saying things to passersby. Quick chews his gum and lets a certain intensity bloom inside. The intensity fills him, swells him, widens his eyes and juts his jaw. These kids will see him.
They will see me, but they won’t see who I am.
“Hey matey,” they say right on cue. “Dude.”
Quick stops walking and looks at them, smiles in just the right way. He waits to hear what they’re offering. They tell him in a too loud and brash way. Quick laughs a little and looks around and is quietly impressed with their boldness, and comforted by their stupidity.
“Where?” he asks them. “Not here,” he tells them because he thinks they might just do it out here on a crowded street. He nods to a lane up ahead and starts to walk towards it, and they fall in behind him.
The lane is dark and dirty and you can feel that countless deals have been done here. At the end they are only twenty five metres from the crowd and the light and the cars with their thumping speakers and blaring horns. But no one will see or hear, no one will care what happens.
“What have you got?” Quick asks, looking from one to the other. One wears a T shirt that says Pornstar, the other’s says Funky Nuts. Neither of them suspects a thing.
Pornstar asks if Quick has heard of Mobies.
Quick nods. “Heard of them. Haven’t tried them.”
Pornstar is pleased with this. He nods and smiles and tells Quick that Mobies are new, just imported from Amsterdam, the best on the market. Pornstar’s sidekick is starting to look a little nervous now, like this is taking too long, like he doesn’t like doing deals in dark lanes. Or like they’re a couple of scammers peddling shit.
“Show me.”
Pornstar swings his satchel around and a beat later is holding up a clear plastic bag with about twenty bright green pills in it. He fingers one out and holds it in front of Quick’s face. Quick has seen images of Mobies and thinks the whale looks authentic.
“Thing is,” Quick tells them as he relaxes his weight and rolls his shoulders. “You just can’t tell what you’re getting. These look like the real thing, but they could be shit.”
Pornstar cocks his head to the side in mock affront. He puts on an expression like he’s Quick’s new best friend.
Some jungle techno beat starts to unwind in Quick’s head. It’s a dark and primitive beat, it thumps and cracks, an ominous echo reverberates. Quick contains this. He resists movement, but it overwhelms and he feels his head move, a subtle bounce and he lets go. He lashes out at these jokers, has them by their throats before they know what’s happening. He drives them into the wall, knocks the air from their lungs. He pins them there, his head bobbing to the beat, his eyes wide, full veins bulging.
“I want the truth,” Quick tells them, glaring first at one, then at the other. They look back at him with innocent fear. They just don’t get this. They know about violence, they see it from time to time, fleetingly and in the distance, but it doesn’t feature in their world. They don’t know how to deal with it.
“Seriously man,” Pornstar stammers. “They’re the real deal. No shit.”
“Lift the bag up. Okay, now take one.”
Pornstar frowns at this. Quick looks at him hard. He can see the kid’s not on anything, not yet.
“Take the fucking Moby,” Quick says, each word a falling weight. Funky Nuts wriggles a bit, and Quick tightens his grip. He eases the pressure, however, on Pornstar’s throat. “Do it,” he says.
Pornstar fumbles about with the packet. He pinches one of the pills and holds it up for Quick to see. Then he pops it into his mouth and swallows hard. Gags a little. Opens his mouth for Quick to look inside, but there is no need.
“Now what,” Funky Nuts asks in a tight voice. “We’re gonna wait for it to kick in?”
Quick glares at him briefly, then looks back at Pornstar. “Take another one.”
Pornstar’s eyes widen a little at this. He tries to look at his friend. Quick shoves their heads against the wall. Pornstar takes another pill from the bag and raises it to his lips. His skin is pale and glistening with sweat now, and his hand is shaking. He flicks the pill into his mouth and Quick feels his Adam’s apple move up and down against his palm, feels the spasm like he might throw up.
“Another one,” Quick says with a cruel smile.
“Fuck this,” Funky Nuts mutters as he thrashes violently out of Quick’s grip. “You’ll fucken kill someone like that, you crazy bastard.” He falls to the ground and seems unable to get back up. He moves backwards on his backside, paralyzed with fear and hysteria.
Pornstar has also had enough. He twists and crouches down before pushing away from the wall. Quick wraps both arms around him, twists his right arm back. He grabs the bag of pills, twists and shoves Pornstar away. Momentum carries him forward and he falls over his mate. Quick moves in their direction, and they scramble to toward the street.
Satisfied with their authenticity, Quick pockets the Mobies and gets out of there. He knew he was going to score tonight, but he didn’t know it was going to be this much fun.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Quick, Part One
And now for something a little different. This is story first appeared in a magazine called Crime Factory about four or so years ago. It was my first attempt at a crime story, of sorts. It was fun to go for something different. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed writing this one. If you like it, I'll keep posting installments. Feel free to let me know what you think. And in case you are wondering, I borrowed my blog name from the character, not the other way around.
Quick. Part One
Quick leans close to the mirror. He looks at the fine wrinkles around his eyes and wonders how long he can keep getting away with this. He knows that others might find the wrinkles attractive, in their way, but to Quick they are worse than ugliness; they are the truth. He pulls his skin tight. Minor surgery would do the job. Something to consider. But not yet. There is too much pleasure in the integrity of the deception.
Quick runs a hand through his short, frost-white hair. It is almost dry. He scoops some styling wax from the jar and works it through, messing it up nicely. He pulls a few clumps into haphazard spikes. He slicks his trimmed eyebrows down, pausing to touch the silver brow ring, a recent addition he regrets not doing sooner. He runs his forefinger over the razor line of hair that runs from his bottom lip to just under his chin. He steps back from the mirror and looks at himself. He smiles with satisfaction. He turns the smile into a big friendly one, a big happy ain’t-life-cool high beamer. He winks at his reflection and clicks a finger gun at himself; not a hint of the truth there.
Quick walks into the kitchen to pour a drink. He takes the vodka from the freezer and pauses, catching sight of his ghostly reflection in the window. Naked, pale and sinewy, round shoulders and strong lithe arms. He turns slightly to the side, flexes his chest, tightens his flat stomach. He hunches his shoulders slightly and makes his shoulder blades jut like folded wings. He is immaculate; he still has the power to make them love him. And he has the power to destroy them. He looks through his reflection into the lights of the city far below.
The chilled vodka washes over the ice. Quick swirls the glass, then sips, tips his head back as the cold liquid sears his throat. He thinks about doing a line, decides not to, not yet.
He pulls on his baggy pants with the straps and pockets and Velcro patches. He slips his feet into a pair of elasticised trainers, his red and black Predators. He twists into a tight sleeveless T shirt, basic white with no logo, and throws a light polyester jacket over the top. He chooses the wrap-arounds with the gun metal frame and the bright orange lenses and wears them on top of his head. Later, some gum, the pills and the sweat will complete the illusion.
He looks at his watch; too early to leave yet. He drinks some more vodka and puts on some music, some driving trance, dark and hypnotic and exhilarating. It’s so good it almost makes the drugs redundant. But he cuts a line on the glass coffee table because tonight is not about the music. He does the line and tips his head back. He sinks back into the cushions as the music takes him out into the night, into the darkness above the lights of the city. He feels a rush of immortality, but contains it. He brings himself back and back until he can see his reflection in the window again, still, silent, in control. The music continues its relentless beat, and Luke appears. Quick sees Luke dancing his strange and beautiful dance with Heidi. They dance in the glassy void. They laugh and dance, spinning and spinning. Quick knows what’s going on. He goes with it. He stands and he too starts to move to the beat. He copies their smooth gangly moves, not just the feet but the hands too. Especially the hands. Their hands sway and flutter, strange creatures fleetingly real. They aim their finger tips at each other, gaze into each other’s eyes and lose themselves in these fantastic moments of swirling light and sound.
When the other one appears at the edge, still and vigilant, Quick nods, points briefly with both hands and turns away.
Quick. Part One
Quick leans close to the mirror. He looks at the fine wrinkles around his eyes and wonders how long he can keep getting away with this. He knows that others might find the wrinkles attractive, in their way, but to Quick they are worse than ugliness; they are the truth. He pulls his skin tight. Minor surgery would do the job. Something to consider. But not yet. There is too much pleasure in the integrity of the deception.
Quick runs a hand through his short, frost-white hair. It is almost dry. He scoops some styling wax from the jar and works it through, messing it up nicely. He pulls a few clumps into haphazard spikes. He slicks his trimmed eyebrows down, pausing to touch the silver brow ring, a recent addition he regrets not doing sooner. He runs his forefinger over the razor line of hair that runs from his bottom lip to just under his chin. He steps back from the mirror and looks at himself. He smiles with satisfaction. He turns the smile into a big friendly one, a big happy ain’t-life-cool high beamer. He winks at his reflection and clicks a finger gun at himself; not a hint of the truth there.
Quick walks into the kitchen to pour a drink. He takes the vodka from the freezer and pauses, catching sight of his ghostly reflection in the window. Naked, pale and sinewy, round shoulders and strong lithe arms. He turns slightly to the side, flexes his chest, tightens his flat stomach. He hunches his shoulders slightly and makes his shoulder blades jut like folded wings. He is immaculate; he still has the power to make them love him. And he has the power to destroy them. He looks through his reflection into the lights of the city far below.
The chilled vodka washes over the ice. Quick swirls the glass, then sips, tips his head back as the cold liquid sears his throat. He thinks about doing a line, decides not to, not yet.
He pulls on his baggy pants with the straps and pockets and Velcro patches. He slips his feet into a pair of elasticised trainers, his red and black Predators. He twists into a tight sleeveless T shirt, basic white with no logo, and throws a light polyester jacket over the top. He chooses the wrap-arounds with the gun metal frame and the bright orange lenses and wears them on top of his head. Later, some gum, the pills and the sweat will complete the illusion.
He looks at his watch; too early to leave yet. He drinks some more vodka and puts on some music, some driving trance, dark and hypnotic and exhilarating. It’s so good it almost makes the drugs redundant. But he cuts a line on the glass coffee table because tonight is not about the music. He does the line and tips his head back. He sinks back into the cushions as the music takes him out into the night, into the darkness above the lights of the city. He feels a rush of immortality, but contains it. He brings himself back and back until he can see his reflection in the window again, still, silent, in control. The music continues its relentless beat, and Luke appears. Quick sees Luke dancing his strange and beautiful dance with Heidi. They dance in the glassy void. They laugh and dance, spinning and spinning. Quick knows what’s going on. He goes with it. He stands and he too starts to move to the beat. He copies their smooth gangly moves, not just the feet but the hands too. Especially the hands. Their hands sway and flutter, strange creatures fleetingly real. They aim their finger tips at each other, gaze into each other’s eyes and lose themselves in these fantastic moments of swirling light and sound.
When the other one appears at the edge, still and vigilant, Quick nods, points briefly with both hands and turns away.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Arj Barker Review
I saw Arj Barker at the Opera House last night. Very funny guy. I have to review the show so this time I took notes. This was the first time I have ever taken notes for something I have to write about. I've always relied on memory but the last stand up act I reviewed I got a bit drunk and had a great time but the next day could not remember any of the details. Like, not a thing... other than the name of the comedian and that I laughed lots. It was a difficult review to write, but I think I got away with it. At least there were no letters of complaint.
I just wanted to jot down key words that would jog my memory and bring the details into focus. Thing was, I was really quite self-conscious about taking notes. It always seems like such a pretentious thing to do: "Ooh - look at me. I'm a reviewer. I have to take notes for my review which I must take notes for, being the professional reviewer that I am. I am important, you see, unlike the rest of you who are just here to sit back and enjoy yourselves. I have to concentrate and take notes. Are you noticing that I am a reviewer? Are you wondering who I write for? Are you wondering if I am a famous reviewer? Because that would be nice, if you wondered if I am famous, because although I am not a famous reviewer, I could be. And that's what all this note taking business is all about. Fuck me I like how taking notes separates me from the rest of you and, you know, imbues me with an air of importance and maybe even a little mystery, and being mysterious is even more fun than trying to appear important..."
So I took a scrap of paper instead of a notepad and kept the pen (my Spiderman pen in case anyone did spot me taking notes because this would at least look like I wasn't taking myself too seriously) and paper out of view, scribbling discreetly during the high points when everyone was distracted by the funny stuff on stage.
In the foyer after the show I checked what I had written and I had been so secretive, so utterly hell bent on keeping the pen and paper out of view, that I seriously couldn't understand a Goddamned thing. It was gibberish. It was spastic doodles no matter which way I turned the piece of paper. It may as well have been Mandarin. Some of it looked like it was Mandarin.
Mr Barker was signing autographs, so I joined the queue and when it was my turn I showed him the piece of paper and explained what happened. I asked if he could make any sense of my notes. He looked and said he could not. I asked him if he would mind signing my piece of paper. He wrote on my piece of paper "Be kind, thanks, Arj Barker, 2007."
This is currently my favourite piece of paper. It's official proof, if ever I need it, that I am a fucking idiot.
I just wanted to jot down key words that would jog my memory and bring the details into focus. Thing was, I was really quite self-conscious about taking notes. It always seems like such a pretentious thing to do: "Ooh - look at me. I'm a reviewer. I have to take notes for my review which I must take notes for, being the professional reviewer that I am. I am important, you see, unlike the rest of you who are just here to sit back and enjoy yourselves. I have to concentrate and take notes. Are you noticing that I am a reviewer? Are you wondering who I write for? Are you wondering if I am a famous reviewer? Because that would be nice, if you wondered if I am famous, because although I am not a famous reviewer, I could be. And that's what all this note taking business is all about. Fuck me I like how taking notes separates me from the rest of you and, you know, imbues me with an air of importance and maybe even a little mystery, and being mysterious is even more fun than trying to appear important..."
So I took a scrap of paper instead of a notepad and kept the pen (my Spiderman pen in case anyone did spot me taking notes because this would at least look like I wasn't taking myself too seriously) and paper out of view, scribbling discreetly during the high points when everyone was distracted by the funny stuff on stage.
In the foyer after the show I checked what I had written and I had been so secretive, so utterly hell bent on keeping the pen and paper out of view, that I seriously couldn't understand a Goddamned thing. It was gibberish. It was spastic doodles no matter which way I turned the piece of paper. It may as well have been Mandarin. Some of it looked like it was Mandarin.
Mr Barker was signing autographs, so I joined the queue and when it was my turn I showed him the piece of paper and explained what happened. I asked if he could make any sense of my notes. He looked and said he could not. I asked him if he would mind signing my piece of paper. He wrote on my piece of paper "Be kind, thanks, Arj Barker, 2007."
This is currently my favourite piece of paper. It's official proof, if ever I need it, that I am a fucking idiot.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Things Not To Say In The Workplace
Prompted by a recent post here is this random memory...
My girlfriend used to be a caterer and one of her corporate clients said, "We're all or nothing, aren't we. You don't hear from us for ages and all of a sudden we need you every day."
"Yes," GF replied earnestly. "You seem to come in spurts."
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Note To Self...
Just what the FUCK is your problem? What's the go with all this mood swing shit? Last week you were so fucking "up" it was nauseating enough for me to think about writing to you to tell you to pull your head in with all this "optimistic" crap and that "life's been so good to me" stuff, and I do believe on three occasions you said that there "really is a kind of magic out there" (fucking GAG! What the fuck is that shit all about? Magic? Fuck off bitch!), and now you're the mopiest fucker who ever walked the face of the Earth. What are you - a chick? Is that it? With all that hormones crap they come up with? Are you about to CRY? Well ARE? YOU? Because if you are about to cry with the unbearable sadness of it all I might just have to march over and smack you right on the vagina, you stupid stupid little mangirl.
And even if you're not about to cry, this mopey shit... FUCK. It's just embarrassing. Toughen the fuck up. Or at least get a bit of consistency going, Goddamned homo.
And even if you're not about to cry, this mopey shit... FUCK. It's just embarrassing. Toughen the fuck up. Or at least get a bit of consistency going, Goddamned homo.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Copyright Woopsie
I wrote to a syndication agency the other day, and they responded pretty quickly and professionally. I sent them a copy of a story that went into a major glossy here almost 12 months ago, and the agent loved it. Said it was a page turner and that she would love to represent me in the US and the UK. Said that as soon as I write a pitch, send some more samples and send a bio she would get started on a marketing campaign overseas.
Excellent news.
Except that now I find that the major glossy owns the rights to my story, not me. I'm hoping that because the story was generated by me and not them that they will release the rights so that I can on-sell the story. It really is my story, a personal account that I wrote in full before ever contacting the magazine, so I'm going to be pretty pissed off if they don't let me have the rights to sell it. I'm hoping their "all rights reserved" clause is to protect the ideas that they generate and that they will do the decent thing and be happy with a credit, because it's fucking hard work trying to make any sort of a living from writing and I really need this, both for the money and confidence boost.
I have to write to the editor of the glossy today. I guess if they don't do the decent thing it's a lesson learned. From now on if I sell a story I guess I have to make sure that I am only selling first publishing rights and make it clear that I retain copyright.
I guess these are the things you learn when you do a course of some description. Bugger, bugger, bugger.
Excellent news.
Except that now I find that the major glossy owns the rights to my story, not me. I'm hoping that because the story was generated by me and not them that they will release the rights so that I can on-sell the story. It really is my story, a personal account that I wrote in full before ever contacting the magazine, so I'm going to be pretty pissed off if they don't let me have the rights to sell it. I'm hoping their "all rights reserved" clause is to protect the ideas that they generate and that they will do the decent thing and be happy with a credit, because it's fucking hard work trying to make any sort of a living from writing and I really need this, both for the money and confidence boost.
I have to write to the editor of the glossy today. I guess if they don't do the decent thing it's a lesson learned. From now on if I sell a story I guess I have to make sure that I am only selling first publishing rights and make it clear that I retain copyright.
I guess these are the things you learn when you do a course of some description. Bugger, bugger, bugger.
Friday, January 26, 2007
McGuyver
Spectacular. Easing myself back onto the treadmill. Accepted my first story for 2007 for one of the mags I write for. Did a phone interview. Commenced chat by joking to the interviewee about my head still being on holiday and gosh I hope I remember how to work the recorder. Had a lovely, lengthy chat. Hung up the phone. Checked recorder. Can you guess what happened next?
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
McNaught
Lazy post. This is my latest Grumpy column for the good people at Tsunami mag.
Grumpy
After doofing my way around the countryside recently I found myself sitting on the outdoor deck of a nice little restaurant on a quaint seaside town. As the sun sunk sleepily beyond the horizon, someone at the next table said, “Ooh, look, there it is.” Someone else at their table added a “Where? Oh there! Oh my God!” A third person chimed in with a masculine, “She’s a bloody beauty, isn’t she?” I looked over to see that they were watching a plane’s vapour trail make its way across the darkening sky. I asked if they know someone who is on it. “On what?” Masculine Man asked. “On a bloody comet?” “Fuck off,” I replied in my head, adding out loud, “That’s not a comet. It’s a plane.” They insisted that was “the comet”, and I had to admit there was a faint chance there might be a comet about because I’d been having a feral couple of weeks and maybe I didn’t know absolutely everything after all. I kept one eye on this alleged comet just in case, even though I was fairly sure I was watching Qantas 145 make its way to Perth.
Turns out there is a comet about, and being quite the cometologist, when I get back home trudge across to a nearby hill at the time the Internet has told me to and wait for the comet to make its appearance. Through expertly squinty eyes I spot the comet. Ah yes, good ol’ McNaught. There are a couple of kids and their dad looking in completely the wrong direction, so I point the comet out. Before I know what’s happened I’m embroiled in a ridiculously heated discussion about astronomy, aircraft vapour trails, ambient light, light refraction and all sort of egghead shit. With seven year olds. I say fine, look at nothing, I’m watching the comet. Minutes later there’s triumphant shouting as the kids and their dad point out a Sky Thing that totally shits all over my Sky Thing in the comet stakes, and I realise those silly bastards at the restaurant really had been looking at an aeroplane vapour trail... ha ha - stupid people.
And what’s the go with kids and their inability to win an argument graciously? What’s with all this ner ner ner ner shit? Why don’t they just grow up?
While they’re distracted by their stupid little comet, I deftly kick some dried dog poo into their pile of wind-cheaters and caps and make my way home.
Grumpy
After doofing my way around the countryside recently I found myself sitting on the outdoor deck of a nice little restaurant on a quaint seaside town. As the sun sunk sleepily beyond the horizon, someone at the next table said, “Ooh, look, there it is.” Someone else at their table added a “Where? Oh there! Oh my God!” A third person chimed in with a masculine, “She’s a bloody beauty, isn’t she?” I looked over to see that they were watching a plane’s vapour trail make its way across the darkening sky. I asked if they know someone who is on it. “On what?” Masculine Man asked. “On a bloody comet?” “Fuck off,” I replied in my head, adding out loud, “That’s not a comet. It’s a plane.” They insisted that was “the comet”, and I had to admit there was a faint chance there might be a comet about because I’d been having a feral couple of weeks and maybe I didn’t know absolutely everything after all. I kept one eye on this alleged comet just in case, even though I was fairly sure I was watching Qantas 145 make its way to Perth.
Turns out there is a comet about, and being quite the cometologist, when I get back home trudge across to a nearby hill at the time the Internet has told me to and wait for the comet to make its appearance. Through expertly squinty eyes I spot the comet. Ah yes, good ol’ McNaught. There are a couple of kids and their dad looking in completely the wrong direction, so I point the comet out. Before I know what’s happened I’m embroiled in a ridiculously heated discussion about astronomy, aircraft vapour trails, ambient light, light refraction and all sort of egghead shit. With seven year olds. I say fine, look at nothing, I’m watching the comet. Minutes later there’s triumphant shouting as the kids and their dad point out a Sky Thing that totally shits all over my Sky Thing in the comet stakes, and I realise those silly bastards at the restaurant really had been looking at an aeroplane vapour trail... ha ha - stupid people.
And what’s the go with kids and their inability to win an argument graciously? What’s with all this ner ner ner ner shit? Why don’t they just grow up?
While they’re distracted by their stupid little comet, I deftly kick some dried dog poo into their pile of wind-cheaters and caps and make my way home.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Off The Rails
I was just asked to write a review of the last party I went to, Exodus Live. 330 word limit, have fun with it, kind of brief I like. Unfortunately I went a bit off the rails and had to stop because it's not going to be quite the review the mag will be expecting. Pity because I was on a bit of a roll, and it does actually capture something of the spirit of the thing. You can see the tone and style I was going for, but it's just a really good example of lack of discipline. Thought I may as well post it here because you might get a giggle out of it.
Right, back to a blank page for me...
Exodus Live Festival
With some unreliable background rumblings about the festival organisation changing hands, the big concern was whether this year’s Exodus was going to be as good as last year’s, which was the best Australian dance festival I had been to. Short answer? Yup, sure was. Slightly longer answer? Okay then... nasty hailstorm en-route, weather cleared to sunny with dribbly little showers, set up tent like the pro I am (ha), hit the dancefloor. Someone said something about the electro dome so I sauntered into what turned out to be the most twisted dance experience I’d ever... um, experienced. The music was crunchy and poppy and wonderfully fucked up... almost as fucked up as the lunatics I was dancing with. These guys were freaks. Later I asked my friends who had pointed the dome out to me what they thought. “Fucked if I was going in there,” was their reply, “it looked too scary.” Wandered past a packed children’s tent where a fully made up guy was telling a story to a crowd of enthralled children. Kids were lapping it up. Slept. Hit the dancefloor at 9am in time for Kolliope whose musical praises I will still be singing on my death bed. I loved their sweet melodies and glorious lyrics across an undeservedly empty dance floor (order of appearance was weird and tempo of acts needed to be more complementary) and through a sometimes patchy sound system. Later I introduced myself to Kolliope and enjoyed my favourite moments of the festival... Michelle called me an angel and she and Randolf gave me big cuddles just because I’ve written good things about them... aaaawe. Hit the psytrance stage and always, those guys had the sound sorted. Danced to some guy whose DJ antics resembled the international Eskimo, so when someone asked who the DJ was, I said Eskimo, even though I don’t think there was an international on the 100 plus line up. Psy stage was smaller than last year but the vibe every bit as electric... except when those freak-arse dogs attached themselves by their fun bits, not in traditional doggy style but rear-end to rear-end, in the middle of the dancefloor and looked really bored with the hour or so of attention they were getting. It was bizarre. They were stuck like a couple of Leggo blocks. Some wigged out guy thought pouring cold beer on the attached bits was the solution. Another guy thought he could pick one dog up and revolve it like a corkscrew. Fortunately a giggling kind of common sense prevailed and everyone just let them wait until whatever was supposed to happen happened while we pointed and laughed. It was fucked up... and pretty damn funny. If you were there, you know what I mean. If you’re that totally sick chick who took the photo, please forward it to me – mine didn’t turn out so well. Got some food. Guy was charging guys $1 more than he was charging the girls for the same meals. Next year, Falafel Man, I will have my vengeance *shakes fist at Falafel Man and plots vengeance*
(It's here that I realised I was hopelessly off the rails and had to abort).
Right, back to a blank page for me...
Exodus Live Festival
With some unreliable background rumblings about the festival organisation changing hands, the big concern was whether this year’s Exodus was going to be as good as last year’s, which was the best Australian dance festival I had been to. Short answer? Yup, sure was. Slightly longer answer? Okay then... nasty hailstorm en-route, weather cleared to sunny with dribbly little showers, set up tent like the pro I am (ha), hit the dancefloor. Someone said something about the electro dome so I sauntered into what turned out to be the most twisted dance experience I’d ever... um, experienced. The music was crunchy and poppy and wonderfully fucked up... almost as fucked up as the lunatics I was dancing with. These guys were freaks. Later I asked my friends who had pointed the dome out to me what they thought. “Fucked if I was going in there,” was their reply, “it looked too scary.” Wandered past a packed children’s tent where a fully made up guy was telling a story to a crowd of enthralled children. Kids were lapping it up. Slept. Hit the dancefloor at 9am in time for Kolliope whose musical praises I will still be singing on my death bed. I loved their sweet melodies and glorious lyrics across an undeservedly empty dance floor (order of appearance was weird and tempo of acts needed to be more complementary) and through a sometimes patchy sound system. Later I introduced myself to Kolliope and enjoyed my favourite moments of the festival... Michelle called me an angel and she and Randolf gave me big cuddles just because I’ve written good things about them... aaaawe. Hit the psytrance stage and always, those guys had the sound sorted. Danced to some guy whose DJ antics resembled the international Eskimo, so when someone asked who the DJ was, I said Eskimo, even though I don’t think there was an international on the 100 plus line up. Psy stage was smaller than last year but the vibe every bit as electric... except when those freak-arse dogs attached themselves by their fun bits, not in traditional doggy style but rear-end to rear-end, in the middle of the dancefloor and looked really bored with the hour or so of attention they were getting. It was bizarre. They were stuck like a couple of Leggo blocks. Some wigged out guy thought pouring cold beer on the attached bits was the solution. Another guy thought he could pick one dog up and revolve it like a corkscrew. Fortunately a giggling kind of common sense prevailed and everyone just let them wait until whatever was supposed to happen happened while we pointed and laughed. It was fucked up... and pretty damn funny. If you were there, you know what I mean. If you’re that totally sick chick who took the photo, please forward it to me – mine didn’t turn out so well. Got some food. Guy was charging guys $1 more than he was charging the girls for the same meals. Next year, Falafel Man, I will have my vengeance *shakes fist at Falafel Man and plots vengeance*
(It's here that I realised I was hopelessly off the rails and had to abort).
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Back
Back. Tanned. Tired. Story ideas still keep blooming in my mind. Still feel like I'm driving. Covered about 3,700km for two parties. If I had my way I'd be adding another 2 - 3,000 on to take in Rainbow Serpent next week as well. But I don't have my way. There's a treadmill to jump on, even though I just wanna be a gypsy. Maybe one day I'll ditch this treadmill thing.
Back with more tomorrow when I am more coherent... then again I have a real world to get back to as well as ideas for a novel, a short story collection and a children's book to get on with.
Back with more tomorrow when I am more coherent... then again I have a real world to get back to as well as ideas for a novel, a short story collection and a children's book to get on with.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Orgy And Drug People
Too much has happened to get it all down now, but I am bursting with stuff to write about. Just an account of getting to the party and the party itself is going to make for some (hopefully) good reading. And I have a stack of fiction ideas too. Maybe even a novel, and the energy to throw myself into a novel. It's been a blast.
But following on from the previous post... we stayed at the same motel after Exodus and the orgy lady said they were really busy. "I don't know what's going on for this time of the week. I think there must be a huge drug party on somewhere."
Standing there unshaven, sunburned and sore from dancing for three days, still wearing my party wrist band, dribbling mushroom tea, syringes hanging out of my arms, a shtoopie hanging from my lips, acid-snakes oozing from my pores as I sweated pure A-grade heroin with pockets bulging with mescalin, I looked at her through my bloodshot, pin-prick eyes and felt kind of sheepish...
But following on from the previous post... we stayed at the same motel after Exodus and the orgy lady said they were really busy. "I don't know what's going on for this time of the week. I think there must be a huge drug party on somewhere."
Standing there unshaven, sunburned and sore from dancing for three days, still wearing my party wrist band, dribbling mushroom tea, syringes hanging out of my arms, a shtoopie hanging from my lips, acid-snakes oozing from my pores as I sweated pure A-grade heroin with pockets bulging with mescalin, I looked at her through my bloodshot, pin-prick eyes and felt kind of sheepish...
Friday, January 12, 2007
Orgy People
Am in Byron for a couple more hours before heading to Exodus Live in Tenterfield. Roughing it again for a few days of party mayhem.
Get this though - spent the night in a cute little motel. Woke up to a gorgeous Byron day of sunshine, pleasant humidity, the buzz of holiday in the air. Showered, started moving our stuff back into the car, and the hotel lady (sweet 60-ish year old) bumps into us and greets us not with a "good morning" or "nice day", instead she smiles sweetly and says in her nice 60-ish year old voice, "Have you been to an orgy?"
What the hell is that all about?
Get this though - spent the night in a cute little motel. Woke up to a gorgeous Byron day of sunshine, pleasant humidity, the buzz of holiday in the air. Showered, started moving our stuff back into the car, and the hotel lady (sweet 60-ish year old) bumps into us and greets us not with a "good morning" or "nice day", instead she smiles sweetly and says in her nice 60-ish year old voice, "Have you been to an orgy?"
What the hell is that all about?
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Death & Beauty
Traveled up the coast and took a turn inland to a place called Bonalbo. It's the same site we got evacuated from last year due to flooding. This year, no rain. But the party ended on a pretty tragic note. Some of you might have read about it in the news.
First up though, it really was a good party. Well organised, loads of good music, vibe just as it should be. Met up with many friends who had also traveled from Sydney. Saw faces I think we saw at Soulclipse in Turkey. Others are people Ann and I are getting to know from parties around this area (north west NSW, near the Queensland border, roughly eight hours' drive from Sydney).
Set up camp on the river's edge just far enough away from the music to enjoy going to sleep to it. I like drifting off to music. Nice to wake up to it too, knowing that some die hards are probably still dancing. Also nice to wake up to the chime and whip of tiny, unseen birds and the deep and comical chirrup of frog-call.
Emerging from the tent, there are friends and strangers making their way to or from the dancefloor, drink in hand at breakfast time, and it's a lovely sense of freedom to think fuck it, and also crack open that first beer of the day. Some small talk with neighbours about how it's good to get a good night's sleep at these things.
The day soon becomes another blur of laughing and dancing, dancing sometimes under the sprinkler system because skin is already stinging with the glare of the sun. Sometimes it's just good to sit in the shade and watch others have their fun. Sometimes the fun is infectious and the pulsing music too hard to resist any longer and it's time to dance on tired limbs again, smiling that psytrance smile.
There's a face I remember from last year, this girl who is amazing to watch. She's beautiful, no doubt about it, but in a strange way. She was at each of last year's parties and in Byron away from the parties too. She's one of those people I want to know, maybe someone I shouldn't get to know. She's a kind of Earth Mother type, layers of earthy clothes, a hypnotic sway of the hips, a smile and a laugh you fall in love with each time you see it. I know she's seen me smile as I watch her, and today I decide to go and say hello. I tell Ann this.
"That girl," I say, "I want to say hello to her. I want to know her name."
Ann says nothing. She knows who I'm talking about because I pointed her out last year. I pick up a vibe. I change my mind about saying hello. Then I change it back again.
I walk down the hill and join the crowd, stomping in the dust beneath the trees and the colourful streamers. The girl is laughing again and doing that swaying, sensual dance. Her eyes could be green, those lips are dark and wide across her face, hair dusty red. She's not a classic beauty. She's so much more than that. I walk over to her when the time is right.
"Hello," I say to her. "What is your name?"
"I'm Kylie," she says, smiling and open.
"I'm Lee," I tell her. "I've seen you at a few parties around here and just wanted to say hello. I'm not hitting on you or anything. Just wanted to say hello, because you're a very attractive person. And I thought I'd say hello."
The smile is a wide one, lines at the corners of the eyes deepening. She presses her hands together and says thank you, and I leave it at that, knowing that we'll see each other again, probably at next week's party.
Back up on the hill I tell Ann that I said hello to the girl, and again I pick up a vibe, and I think this is very funny because Ann has guys telling her that kind of thing all the time. They stop her in the street and ask to have their photo taken with her. I know it makes her happy.
Was I wrong to say what I said?
Later Kylie walks past and I introduce her to Ann, so there is no confusion. They smile and shake hands and tell each other their names, and as Kylie continues walking she touches me lightly on the shoulder, a gentle squeeze, another generous flash of that smile and I think no, I was not wrong to say what I said.
As the day darkens we notice helicopters buzzing around. Last time this happened at a party like this it turned out they were not joyflights that we were waving like fools at but search helicopters. The guy they were looking for had wandered off at the beginning of the party and his friends had assumed he had not come back to his tent because he'd met a girl. His body was eventually found in the river. He'd wandered off alone, slipped at the river's edge, hit his head, drowned alone.
We're not sure what these helicopters are doing, but it makes us feel uneasy. We've danced enough for a while and decide to go back to the tent for a bit of chill time. On the way, we find out what happened. There had been parachute jumps on offer for those that way inclined. Several jumps went smoothly, one did not. Young guy from Iceland had pushed the limit and freefell for too long. Chute didn't have enough time to open properly. He was, by all accounts, an adrenalin junkie. It had just happened. We bumped into one friend who had been watching, then another who knew the guy. The scene was as you can expect.
My mood was swirling. Drunk on beauty, then this empty sadness, that cold hard fact again that it can all end so quickly, a life ending in the name of fun.
We lay in silence in the tent, knowing that most of the others were not aware of what had happened. The music was still pumping, people were still dancing. It was the strangest backdrop to the scene we had just walked through.
First up though, it really was a good party. Well organised, loads of good music, vibe just as it should be. Met up with many friends who had also traveled from Sydney. Saw faces I think we saw at Soulclipse in Turkey. Others are people Ann and I are getting to know from parties around this area (north west NSW, near the Queensland border, roughly eight hours' drive from Sydney).
Set up camp on the river's edge just far enough away from the music to enjoy going to sleep to it. I like drifting off to music. Nice to wake up to it too, knowing that some die hards are probably still dancing. Also nice to wake up to the chime and whip of tiny, unseen birds and the deep and comical chirrup of frog-call.
Emerging from the tent, there are friends and strangers making their way to or from the dancefloor, drink in hand at breakfast time, and it's a lovely sense of freedom to think fuck it, and also crack open that first beer of the day. Some small talk with neighbours about how it's good to get a good night's sleep at these things.
The day soon becomes another blur of laughing and dancing, dancing sometimes under the sprinkler system because skin is already stinging with the glare of the sun. Sometimes it's just good to sit in the shade and watch others have their fun. Sometimes the fun is infectious and the pulsing music too hard to resist any longer and it's time to dance on tired limbs again, smiling that psytrance smile.
There's a face I remember from last year, this girl who is amazing to watch. She's beautiful, no doubt about it, but in a strange way. She was at each of last year's parties and in Byron away from the parties too. She's one of those people I want to know, maybe someone I shouldn't get to know. She's a kind of Earth Mother type, layers of earthy clothes, a hypnotic sway of the hips, a smile and a laugh you fall in love with each time you see it. I know she's seen me smile as I watch her, and today I decide to go and say hello. I tell Ann this.
"That girl," I say, "I want to say hello to her. I want to know her name."
Ann says nothing. She knows who I'm talking about because I pointed her out last year. I pick up a vibe. I change my mind about saying hello. Then I change it back again.
I walk down the hill and join the crowd, stomping in the dust beneath the trees and the colourful streamers. The girl is laughing again and doing that swaying, sensual dance. Her eyes could be green, those lips are dark and wide across her face, hair dusty red. She's not a classic beauty. She's so much more than that. I walk over to her when the time is right.
"Hello," I say to her. "What is your name?"
"I'm Kylie," she says, smiling and open.
"I'm Lee," I tell her. "I've seen you at a few parties around here and just wanted to say hello. I'm not hitting on you or anything. Just wanted to say hello, because you're a very attractive person. And I thought I'd say hello."
The smile is a wide one, lines at the corners of the eyes deepening. She presses her hands together and says thank you, and I leave it at that, knowing that we'll see each other again, probably at next week's party.
Back up on the hill I tell Ann that I said hello to the girl, and again I pick up a vibe, and I think this is very funny because Ann has guys telling her that kind of thing all the time. They stop her in the street and ask to have their photo taken with her. I know it makes her happy.
Was I wrong to say what I said?
Later Kylie walks past and I introduce her to Ann, so there is no confusion. They smile and shake hands and tell each other their names, and as Kylie continues walking she touches me lightly on the shoulder, a gentle squeeze, another generous flash of that smile and I think no, I was not wrong to say what I said.
As the day darkens we notice helicopters buzzing around. Last time this happened at a party like this it turned out they were not joyflights that we were waving like fools at but search helicopters. The guy they were looking for had wandered off at the beginning of the party and his friends had assumed he had not come back to his tent because he'd met a girl. His body was eventually found in the river. He'd wandered off alone, slipped at the river's edge, hit his head, drowned alone.
We're not sure what these helicopters are doing, but it makes us feel uneasy. We've danced enough for a while and decide to go back to the tent for a bit of chill time. On the way, we find out what happened. There had been parachute jumps on offer for those that way inclined. Several jumps went smoothly, one did not. Young guy from Iceland had pushed the limit and freefell for too long. Chute didn't have enough time to open properly. He was, by all accounts, an adrenalin junkie. It had just happened. We bumped into one friend who had been watching, then another who knew the guy. The scene was as you can expect.
My mood was swirling. Drunk on beauty, then this empty sadness, that cold hard fact again that it can all end so quickly, a life ending in the name of fun.
We lay in silence in the tent, knowing that most of the others were not aware of what had happened. The music was still pumping, people were still dancing. It was the strangest backdrop to the scene we had just walked through.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Frivolous Man
The previous post reminded me of this story. It's the story behind a story I wrote called Being Groove Terminator. I might post that story here some time. It's very silly, but I especially like the series of coincidences and connections behind the story.
The Dreaded One and I are loading up the car tomorrow and heading to Byron Bay and Tenterfield and I am waaaay happy about that. I'm going fully feral again and am going to try not to miss creature comforts like internet and text messaging and ... oh God - two weeks without a theatre hit. Fucking hell. This is serious. And... and what if I come back and everyone has forgotten who I am and I have to start all over again. I think it's funny and everything, but part of me just quite likes seeing my reviews on theatre walls. I like that I was quoted in an arts piece this week: "Interval journo Quick was there and he said blah blah blah..." I mean, it doesn't give me a stiffy or anything, but it's kinda nice that someone thinks I'm worth quoting. What if everyone forgets about me and I never get quoted again. I want to be quoted, goddamnit. I don't want to be forgotten.
Fuck it. Can't risk it. Going to call the trip off and stay home and keep working. What was I thinking? Road trip what? Two dance festivals in two weeks? Sandy beaches? Sleeping in? Staying up all night? Drinks at lunch time? Dancing in sunshine and bare feet in fields of flowers? What? Who the hell do I think I am? Frivolous Man?
The Dreaded One and I are loading up the car tomorrow and heading to Byron Bay and Tenterfield and I am waaaay happy about that. I'm going fully feral again and am going to try not to miss creature comforts like internet and text messaging and ... oh God - two weeks without a theatre hit. Fucking hell. This is serious. And... and what if I come back and everyone has forgotten who I am and I have to start all over again. I think it's funny and everything, but part of me just quite likes seeing my reviews on theatre walls. I like that I was quoted in an arts piece this week: "Interval journo Quick was there and he said blah blah blah..." I mean, it doesn't give me a stiffy or anything, but it's kinda nice that someone thinks I'm worth quoting. What if everyone forgets about me and I never get quoted again. I want to be quoted, goddamnit. I don't want to be forgotten.
Fuck it. Can't risk it. Going to call the trip off and stay home and keep working. What was I thinking? Road trip what? Two dance festivals in two weeks? Sandy beaches? Sleeping in? Staying up all night? Drinks at lunch time? Dancing in sunshine and bare feet in fields of flowers? What? Who the hell do I think I am? Frivolous Man?
Monday, January 01, 2007
2006 In Review
What a funny year 2006 was. This is how it went for me: Went up to Byron Bay at this time in January after handing in my notice. Quit my job as a writer and editor in March. Went to Turkey to see a total solar elipse and dance in the mud for six days. Also went to Spain and the UK. Came back to no job. Started getting regular writing work with another mag almost immediately. Had my second feature published in Men's Health (a story about tattoos). Kept writing my monthly column called Grumpy. Started seeing my theatre reviews on the walls of various theatres. Started masquerading as a chef at The Sydney Opera House. My part time chef job blew out to 60 hours a week and I still managed to review some theatre and write a story or two for the mag and spend a couple of days in my shop. I seemed to morph from a lazy dreamer into some sort of high energy version of me.All in all, not a bad year at all. Some unexpected turns, a bit of leaping into the great unknown, and really, just not bad at all.
When I get back from my two week road trip I'm going to start badgering overseas magazines with a couple of short stories that I believe in (they are at least as good as this one), try to keep the chef stuff in balance and try to get grown up money for my arts writing. And I'd like a regular humour column in a major newspaper too please because my God there's some drivel out there... and I can write drivel to compete with the best of them. Some of the Christmas columns were stinkers.
But look, really, the absolute highlight of 2006 for me was when in a pension in Selcuk in Turkey a pissed and probably very stoned Japanese tourist fully believed I was Bra Pee. I don't think I can top that moment. Me talking to The Dreaded One, my head almost shaved, rugged as fuck facial hair, pissed tourist stumbling into the room and pointing at me and insisting to her equally inebriated boyfriend "Rook! It's Bra Pee! Bra Pee! Hello Mr Pee."
Me: "Wot?"
She: "I get camera. Take photo of Bra Pee."
Me: "Wot?"
Amused Canadian Traveler: "She thinks you're Brad Pitt."
That was definitely the highlight of my 2006... no wait. It got better when a friend in the UK was telling her flatmate the Bra Pee story and was absolutely horrified that someone should make such a profound mistake, and where the flatmate was supposed to join in the laughter of derision, they paused, looked a little closer and said, "No... I can see the resemblance."
Absolutely horrified UK friend: "Oh fuck off! Don't tell him that."
Perfect.
Friday, December 29, 2006
This Is Not A Blog Post
Had some amusing shit to tell you about which happened today. We're gearing up for a massive New Year's Eve at the Sydney Opera House (massive in that The Dreaded One and I are looking after one of the functions on the night, and it alone is for 950 people) and a few things are getting a bit circus-like in the kitchen. There are several different nationalities with various opinions about gender working "together" and there's a fuckload of personal politics hijacking the point of everyone being there. Lasting image of the day: a bumble-arsed Nazi apprentice chef and a kitchenhand locked in a tug-o-war to the death with the hose used to hose down the floor. Smacking sound shortly after seeing this going on was my palm connecting with my forehead. And I'm not sure it was the silliest thing that happened today. Luckily there are a few grown ups getting things done.
So anyway, while I'd love to regale me with the day's misadventures (because I write this stuff to amuse me after all), I'm just not in the mood. I'm right royally fucked off because neither of the stories I entered in a competition rated a mention. I know - I fucking know - that these stories were at least worthy of mentioning. Hell, I had already planned how I was spending first prize and second prize. The glory was mine. MINE! So what the fuck happened?
What happened was, it made me really cranky, but in a good way, and I'm working on a third story for a comp as well as giving one of the first two a sex change operation so it qualifies for entry in another comp, and that second existing story is going to be hitting slushpiles in The States and the UK early next year. As well as a few slushpiles here.
Tell me I'm not worthy? Snub me? Fuck you.
:)
That feels better. And seriously, the story behind the first prize winner of the comp is kinda heart-warming, and good on the guy. I'm sure the story is good. Looking forward to reading it.
Busy the next couple of days, few days rest then I'm going here and here. Looking forward to these parties.
So. No blogging tonight. Sorry.
So anyway, while I'd love to regale me with the day's misadventures (because I write this stuff to amuse me after all), I'm just not in the mood. I'm right royally fucked off because neither of the stories I entered in a competition rated a mention. I know - I fucking know - that these stories were at least worthy of mentioning. Hell, I had already planned how I was spending first prize and second prize. The glory was mine. MINE! So what the fuck happened?
What happened was, it made me really cranky, but in a good way, and I'm working on a third story for a comp as well as giving one of the first two a sex change operation so it qualifies for entry in another comp, and that second existing story is going to be hitting slushpiles in The States and the UK early next year. As well as a few slushpiles here.
Tell me I'm not worthy? Snub me? Fuck you.
:)
That feels better. And seriously, the story behind the first prize winner of the comp is kinda heart-warming, and good on the guy. I'm sure the story is good. Looking forward to reading it.
Busy the next couple of days, few days rest then I'm going here and here. Looking forward to these parties.
So. No blogging tonight. Sorry.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Big Picture Guy
Last night on the way home from another party, walking down the street, I hear the words, "Hey - there's Quick and The Dreaded One." There's a group of friends strolling across the road drinking from wine glasses. Nice glasses, like Reidel. It's like they've just gotten up from the dinner table and decided to go for a walk around the block to see who they bump into... which is exactly what happened. We swap details about our respective Christmases, then one tells us that S has got a new tattoo.
"Show them your tattoo, S," one of them says.
So S lifts her dress up. Right up. It's a huge tattoo that starts midway up her smooth thigh and climbs all the way up the side of her silky torso. It's a huge, sprawling tattoo that I almost don't see because of her tiny little undies.
We walk for a bit, then say goodbye to go our separate ways. I thank S very much for showing us her undies. I should probably have focused a little more on the tattoo. It's probably a very nice tattoo.
In my defense, however, I would like to say that I was a little drunk and in any case I'm male and what do you expect when someone flashes their knickers at you in the middle of the street like that? And alsotooaswell, they were very pretty little undies and it's completely normal to like things that are little and pretty. So fuck off with your... your one raised eyebrow and silent accusations of sweaty perviness.
"Show them your tattoo, S," one of them says.
So S lifts her dress up. Right up. It's a huge tattoo that starts midway up her smooth thigh and climbs all the way up the side of her silky torso. It's a huge, sprawling tattoo that I almost don't see because of her tiny little undies.
We walk for a bit, then say goodbye to go our separate ways. I thank S very much for showing us her undies. I should probably have focused a little more on the tattoo. It's probably a very nice tattoo.
In my defense, however, I would like to say that I was a little drunk and in any case I'm male and what do you expect when someone flashes their knickers at you in the middle of the street like that? And alsotooaswell, they were very pretty little undies and it's completely normal to like things that are little and pretty. So fuck off with your... your one raised eyebrow and silent accusations of sweaty perviness.
Monday, December 25, 2006
The End Of The World
Weird. It's Monday, December 25th. Start of a new working week, and yet all the shops are closed and no one appears to be at work. The traffic, usually a distant hum, is silent. The predominant sound is of children playing in neighbouring yards. Their laughter mingles with the idle chatter and leisurely laughter of adults. It's overcast and cold, and yet there is a palpable happiness in the air. It's almost like... it's almost like it's the end of the world.
Also, there is a writing competition that I have to enter. Good prize money. Any genre. 3,000 to 5,000 words. The central character has to be a woman. I think I entered once before but wrote what I thought they expected rather than really create a story that I wanted to tell, just from a female perspective. I think I'm going to approach it differently this time.
Maybe I'll write about someone waking up to the eerie silence of the end of the world. She taps out a brief blog post in case there are any survivors, then goes out to investigate...
Also, there is a writing competition that I have to enter. Good prize money. Any genre. 3,000 to 5,000 words. The central character has to be a woman. I think I entered once before but wrote what I thought they expected rather than really create a story that I wanted to tell, just from a female perspective. I think I'm going to approach it differently this time.
Maybe I'll write about someone waking up to the eerie silence of the end of the world. She taps out a brief blog post in case there are any survivors, then goes out to investigate...
Sunday, December 24, 2006
The Bridge Between Our Paunches
I found the song. It's Ta Douluer by Camille. You can tell by her voice that she's hot. I wanted to know what the song's about, so here's a Babelfish translation. Seems it's something about fout science and bridges between paunches. Pretty damn funny.
Your Pain by Camille
L? you it east d?d?br>Laisse me to replace you
I will take your pain
Gently without making noise
Like one r?ille rain
I will take your pain
It fights it d?t
But will not r?stera
I will block the elevator...
To sabotage the switch
But it is which this incrust?
This storm before?
Bitch of small sister salts?
I all will confiscate to him
Its fl?ettes and its whistle
I will give him the fess?..
To transfer R??
But it is which this h?ti?
Who bathes who ground
In water Ti? of your kidneys?
I will deprive it of dessert
He to make bite the poussi?
Of all those which do not have anything any more...
Of all those which are not any more hungry
Say me that fout science
With when this bridge between our paunches?
If you have l??' badly be afraid
You do not have l??e badly thinks!
What is this qu.elle wants this silly bitch
The butter or money of butter
What you sharp or which you die?
What it is necessary Cr? of happiness
Or that it changes godasses
Is necessary that it collapses under the flowers
Change color...
I will play the doctor
Say me that fout science
With when this bridge between our paunches?
If you have l??' badly be afraid
You do not have l??e badly sings!
Your Pain by Camille
L? you it east d?d?br>Laisse me to replace you
I will take your pain
Gently without making noise
Like one r?ille rain
I will take your pain
It fights it d?t
But will not r?stera
I will block the elevator...
To sabotage the switch
But it is which this incrust?
This storm before?
Bitch of small sister salts?
I all will confiscate to him
Its fl?ettes and its whistle
I will give him the fess?..
To transfer R??
But it is which this h?ti?
Who bathes who ground
In water Ti? of your kidneys?
I will deprive it of dessert
He to make bite the poussi?
Of all those which do not have anything any more...
Of all those which are not any more hungry
Say me that fout science
With when this bridge between our paunches?
If you have l??' badly be afraid
You do not have l??e badly thinks!
What is this qu.elle wants this silly bitch
The butter or money of butter
What you sharp or which you die?
What it is necessary Cr? of happiness
Or that it changes godasses
Is necessary that it collapses under the flowers
Change color...
I will play the doctor
Say me that fout science
With when this bridge between our paunches?
If you have l??' badly be afraid
You do not have l??e badly sings!
The Bavrois Song
There is a song out at the moment, catchy little number, really chilled, breezy, female vocals. You hear it once, it stays with you for hours. Problem is, it's in French. And because I'm a stupid little Australian a long way from everywhere else, I can't speak French. Do you have any idea how frustrating that is? I don't even know the name of it so I can google it. The DJ in Quick's Head FM has had it on high rotation all morning, and all I can do to sing along to it is go, "Ooh lalala... laaalalala.... lele avec moi... moi and au revoir... bavrois... bavooooirrrr..."
I'm going to get smacked if I start singing it it public.
I'm going to get smacked if I start singing it it public.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Into The Abyss
The guy who does the wages asked what time I started and what time I'll be finishing. It was another 13 hour shift. He asked if I was going to take a 30 minute break. I frowned, like what's a 30 minute break? One of the other chefs said, "A break? That's what the ladies get isn't it?"
There are no breaks. It's hard work. Eight and nine hour days now seem short. You get home feeling exhausted.
There was a party I'd been planning to go to all week, but at the end of the day I just couldn't bothered. Friend called around at about 1.30 am on her way to the party and The Dreaded One decided to go. I stayed in. Had a vodka and sent a text message saying that if it was really going off, let me know because I am a little less sleepy all of a sudden. Text came back saying it's a pretty good party. 2.30am. Fuck it. Here we go again.
A short time later I'm dressed and fired up for a night out. There's a huge queue outside the club. I think about trying to get in ahead of everyone (name's on the door) but the bouncers look a little psychotic and the queue's moving pretty quickly anyway. I take my place. Best not to draw attention to yourself with guys like this.
Friendly face comes out of the club. Girlfriend of a DJ friend. We say hello. Huge hug. She's outside to stand in line with a friend who happens to be the person right behind me. We chat. There are laughs. The friend puts her arm through mine, and I like it. I like the warmth of her skin, the feeling of another person's touch. The bouncers are giving people grief so the girls link their arms tightly through mine so that we don't get separated. Kind of place it is - girls allowed in, single guys there's a problem. So we stand there like this and I just like it. I like how casual it all is. I like that there was a time in my life when I wished I had friends who would hug me at random moments, for no apparent reason. I like that now I have a few such friends.
What I don't like is that I don't let enough people in. Seeing me stand in that queue, what you'd see is a reasonably approachable guy. Real friendly fucker who knows people as they come and go, has these two quite gorgeous girls on his arms. What you don't see is the solitude. Why can't I be this guy in the nightclub queue more often?
More talk, more laughter, and I remember another time at a bush party with this very girl. Mentally I was in quite a bit of trouble and I just needed to be away from the party. The Dreaded One and I grabbed our stuff to leave. The Dreaded One got caught up saying goodbyes but I was already walking away. I heard this girl ask where I was. I knew she wanted to say goodbye but I turned my back and walked away. I realise now that she's been trying to get to know me better for a long time now. Tonight, the touching, the holding on, some line had been crossed. I asked her and her boyfriend over for dinner some time, and she was really happy about that. Thank fuck some people persist. She could easily have written me off as unlikable, but tonight she was getting Mr Charming pants. It's what she's going to get from now on.
And then inside the club, bypassing all the house-head scenesters we make it downstairs to the psytrance room, and it's fucking brilliant. Everyone is there. So many hugs and smiling faces. I spot The Dreaded One's friend and she hugs me even though she left my house an hour or so earlier. She gets The Dreaded One's attention and she bounds up from the dancefloor and also hugs me, glad that I came after all. There are doofing friends everywhere. Occasionally a hug so enthusiastic you're almost bowled over by it. Suddenly I can't recall the day's fatigue because the music is thumping and the dancefloor is rammed.
Earlier in the day a waitress at work told me that I often look quite sad. No sadness tonight. Just that dumb-arse grin on my face as I dance and dance. Something happens on the dancefloor, and I'm this guy randoms want to talk to. It can be annoying because I'm there to dance, but it can be fun too, and tonight's all fun. I see the girl from outside, the one who held me, and she's smiling from across the dancefloor, and I smile back. I feel fantastic because I am surrounded by friends and some strangers who would like to be friends. A girls flirts. A guy cracks a joke. Tonight, everyone wants to be my friend and it's a great feeling.
Then a big guy I know from all the countless parties comes over. He's huge, big personality to match his physical dimensions. He comes over with a girl. "Hello my friend," he booms in his usual way. Then to the girl, "Have you met Mike Streeton? This is Mike Streeton."
I know Mike Streeton. He's a mutual friend. Alas, I am not he.
"Why did you call me Mike Streeton?" I ask.
"Because you are Mike Streeton."
"I'm not Mike Streeton."
"But I have always known you as Mike Streeton."
I realise that he is not trying to be funny. He is quite off his head and has had a serious memory lapse, but it makes me think: maybe this is what's happening with everyone. Maybe it's not really me they want to know but someone they think I am. Maybe I'm not Mr Charming pants at all but some pretender, a complete fucking fraud. Because the waitress was right. Most of the time I'm alone. Most of the time I look quite sad. Most of the time people don't know what the hell to make of me and leave me alone.
Right. Therapy over. Think my point is simply that outwardly I need to lighten the fuck up and let a few people in.
Overall, I had a blast last night. Haven't really slept and there's a rumour of a small outdoor party on today. I want to go. I want to be immersed in the music. I want to swan dive into the abyss. No pretending there; that's just how I am.
There are no breaks. It's hard work. Eight and nine hour days now seem short. You get home feeling exhausted.
There was a party I'd been planning to go to all week, but at the end of the day I just couldn't bothered. Friend called around at about 1.30 am on her way to the party and The Dreaded One decided to go. I stayed in. Had a vodka and sent a text message saying that if it was really going off, let me know because I am a little less sleepy all of a sudden. Text came back saying it's a pretty good party. 2.30am. Fuck it. Here we go again.
A short time later I'm dressed and fired up for a night out. There's a huge queue outside the club. I think about trying to get in ahead of everyone (name's on the door) but the bouncers look a little psychotic and the queue's moving pretty quickly anyway. I take my place. Best not to draw attention to yourself with guys like this.
Friendly face comes out of the club. Girlfriend of a DJ friend. We say hello. Huge hug. She's outside to stand in line with a friend who happens to be the person right behind me. We chat. There are laughs. The friend puts her arm through mine, and I like it. I like the warmth of her skin, the feeling of another person's touch. The bouncers are giving people grief so the girls link their arms tightly through mine so that we don't get separated. Kind of place it is - girls allowed in, single guys there's a problem. So we stand there like this and I just like it. I like how casual it all is. I like that there was a time in my life when I wished I had friends who would hug me at random moments, for no apparent reason. I like that now I have a few such friends.
What I don't like is that I don't let enough people in. Seeing me stand in that queue, what you'd see is a reasonably approachable guy. Real friendly fucker who knows people as they come and go, has these two quite gorgeous girls on his arms. What you don't see is the solitude. Why can't I be this guy in the nightclub queue more often?
More talk, more laughter, and I remember another time at a bush party with this very girl. Mentally I was in quite a bit of trouble and I just needed to be away from the party. The Dreaded One and I grabbed our stuff to leave. The Dreaded One got caught up saying goodbyes but I was already walking away. I heard this girl ask where I was. I knew she wanted to say goodbye but I turned my back and walked away. I realise now that she's been trying to get to know me better for a long time now. Tonight, the touching, the holding on, some line had been crossed. I asked her and her boyfriend over for dinner some time, and she was really happy about that. Thank fuck some people persist. She could easily have written me off as unlikable, but tonight she was getting Mr Charming pants. It's what she's going to get from now on.
And then inside the club, bypassing all the house-head scenesters we make it downstairs to the psytrance room, and it's fucking brilliant. Everyone is there. So many hugs and smiling faces. I spot The Dreaded One's friend and she hugs me even though she left my house an hour or so earlier. She gets The Dreaded One's attention and she bounds up from the dancefloor and also hugs me, glad that I came after all. There are doofing friends everywhere. Occasionally a hug so enthusiastic you're almost bowled over by it. Suddenly I can't recall the day's fatigue because the music is thumping and the dancefloor is rammed.
Earlier in the day a waitress at work told me that I often look quite sad. No sadness tonight. Just that dumb-arse grin on my face as I dance and dance. Something happens on the dancefloor, and I'm this guy randoms want to talk to. It can be annoying because I'm there to dance, but it can be fun too, and tonight's all fun. I see the girl from outside, the one who held me, and she's smiling from across the dancefloor, and I smile back. I feel fantastic because I am surrounded by friends and some strangers who would like to be friends. A girls flirts. A guy cracks a joke. Tonight, everyone wants to be my friend and it's a great feeling.
Then a big guy I know from all the countless parties comes over. He's huge, big personality to match his physical dimensions. He comes over with a girl. "Hello my friend," he booms in his usual way. Then to the girl, "Have you met Mike Streeton? This is Mike Streeton."
I know Mike Streeton. He's a mutual friend. Alas, I am not he.
"Why did you call me Mike Streeton?" I ask.
"Because you are Mike Streeton."
"I'm not Mike Streeton."
"But I have always known you as Mike Streeton."
I realise that he is not trying to be funny. He is quite off his head and has had a serious memory lapse, but it makes me think: maybe this is what's happening with everyone. Maybe it's not really me they want to know but someone they think I am. Maybe I'm not Mr Charming pants at all but some pretender, a complete fucking fraud. Because the waitress was right. Most of the time I'm alone. Most of the time I look quite sad. Most of the time people don't know what the hell to make of me and leave me alone.
Right. Therapy over. Think my point is simply that outwardly I need to lighten the fuck up and let a few people in.
Overall, I had a blast last night. Haven't really slept and there's a rumour of a small outdoor party on today. I want to go. I want to be immersed in the music. I want to swan dive into the abyss. No pretending there; that's just how I am.
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