I've often thought that I'm not more successful for two reasons. I started late, and I haven't ever had a special area of interest.
It was only two years ago that I quit as music editor of a dance music mag to become some sort of freelancer. My specialty? Arts, I guess, but what the hell does that mean?
Anyway, this week I've been given no faux chefing but heaps of writing offers, and it's really quite hilarious.
I still have to write up the Bill Bailey story. I was also asked if I'm an extreme sports fan and if I'm into Shakespeare. I told the editor that I'm not an expert in either but I am intrigued by people with passion and that I'd be happy to tackle either story, fully expecting that the ski story would be given to a fully rad dude and the Shakespeare one to someone who went to university.
So it was that I found myself talking to famous extreme skier Chris Anthony (one of the stars of the new Warren Miller movie Playground) one day and actor Joe Manning who plays Horatio in the new production of Hamlet, which also stars Brendan Cowell and Barry Otto. I'm then asked if I want to do a story on a Russian play and what about an interview with a photographer who's put together an exhibition on rockabilly culture. Ooh - and can I please pop along to the theatre to review Headlock tonight. Yes yes yes, I say.
And I realised that it's true - I don't have to be en expert in any of these areas, I just have to be interested in what makes these people tick.
I've only just gotten around to adding a signature to my emails. It says:
Lee Bemrose Freelance Writer Performing Arts/Music/Humour
I still haven't made it a full time thing and there's still heaps to learn and a long way to go. But bugger me it's fun.
I did chat with Bill Bailey, yes. (Published version here) It was a lovely chat and I feel he is a good person. It was just after midnight in the UK so it was very considerate of him to share some of his time with me. I'm sure he doesn't need the publicity for his forthcoming visit because his shows will probably sell out regardless. Still. Cool.
I broke ground when I interviewed Laurie Anderson in that I was a tad nervous and too much a fan. I came away from that experience understanding that you cannot be a fan. Respect them but don't gush. So I was not nervous with BB, just wanted to make sure I didn't ask too many very dumb questions. Bear in mind, however, that I knew that he is a very funny and intelligent person and I really need this story to come out nicely. And I am a bit of a fan.
So yeah - maybe a bit nervous about it all going just right.
So imagine my feelings when some way into the interview I glance at my little tape recorder and see that the little red recording light is not on. Can you imagine how I felt? This kind of thing has happened before and I've lost entire conversations. But I thought I had moved on from all that (putting the mic plug into the earphone socket etc). For it to be happening again... whyyyyyyy????
I feverishly check the connections. I've moved my desk out into the living room to make room for a friend in the second bedroom and this is the first phone recording I've made since then so maybe something's not connected properly. Farck!
The little tiny wheels in my little tiny cassette recorder are still turning, so I frown as I laugh at something Bill has said. I am sweating and I feel a stress headache coming on because whyyyy???
And then as I watch, the little tiny wheels in my little tiny cassette recorder stop turning and I realise it's the batteries. Fucked. I'm fucked because little tiny cassette recorders require, I feel sure, little tiny batteries.
I take notes. Bill is interesting and funny and fuck it I need to get this down somehow. I scribble furiously and wish I knew shorthand. I know none of this adrenalin-fueled scribble is going to make sense and I try to listen and I curse for all eternity the little tiny designers of my recorder for not having the competence to include a "batteries are low" warning on this tiny little piece of shit.
I can't keep scribbling and interacting with Bill. He's going to catch on any second now that something is not right and that he is not talking to a professional. Ohfuckohfuckohfuck.
I rummage. I tip things out that might possibly contain little tiny batteries. No joy as pens and staplers and screwdrivers clatter across the desk. I think about other things that require tiny little batteries and yes! The TV remote control. I smash it open and a couple of AAA gems spill forth. I just about cry with happiness.
Have you ever tried to talk on the phone to a world famous comedian whilst trying to get little tiny batteries into a little tiny recorder with your elbows? Diff. Icc. Ult. Don't care how multi-tasky you are, neurosurgery is like eating a banana by comparison.
Recorder is back on and we're back in business. I relax. We keep chatting. Bill gives me almost an hour of his time and overall, it's really enjoyable. He's chilled and cool... which is the same as chilled but warmer, I suppose. We talk about lots of stuff including power tools, Donny Tourette (also a power tool), cat coffins, psytrance, Bill Hicks, Eurovision, Welsh Hobbits (as opposed to Welsh Rarebits)... I think the story, when it comes out, will be okay.
Mind you, I haven't been game to listen to the recording or look at my scribbles yet.
How disappointing. I was supposed to have just interviewed Bill Bailey but he's not answering his phone. Happens with international interviews sometimes... plans get changed, maybe they've come down ill or something. There's always the thing too that someone like him doesn't really need the publicity and it must be a pain in the arse. In fact it's quite possible that I was looking forward to this chat just a tad more than he was...
Still, it is disappointing because he is a very funny man who values silly, and he does really nice things for the protection of animals, which is pretty cool.
Saw this on Saturday night. Slightly different version of the review comes out in Drum tomorrow.
COLDER
I love it when you know almost nothing about a play but you go along to see it anyway, and at some point during the performance you feel kind of grateful that circumstance brought you here.
Inspired by the disappearance of Simon Knight in 2005, Colder tells the story of David and his various relationships over one lifetime and two disappearances. He first goes missing while at Disneyland at the age of seven for about seven hours. He is reunited with his distraught young mother but something from that day lingers and haunts. Later in life, in his early thirties and living on a diet of drugs, casual sex and the possibility of love, he goes missing again and we witness the impact the vanishing of a loved one has on those left behind.
What stood out most for me was the writing. I want to read this script because there are moments when it has the honesty and rhythm of poetry. Mostly, poetic narrative and gritty, very real dialogue slip together seamlessly. The two disappearances a lifetime apart are played out simultaneously and seeing the young boy, the man, the young mother, the middle aged mother, the friends and lovers and the fleeting sexual encounters all together in their different worlds with their different expectations made for a very poignant experience.
Colder is a fine piece of writing with deft direction by Katrina Douglas. With time frames slipping back and forth as they did, there is the potential for confusion, but there was none. There was subtlety in the acting from Dianna McLean as the 59 year-old mother as well as sharp character changes from Megan O’Connell who switched from solid lifelong friend to comical Disney staffer quite impressively. Matthew Walker as David, Jamie Irvine with his various characters, Catherine Terracini as the 33 year old mother and Nathaniel Scotcher as left-behind lover were all very good. So good that in spite of knowing where the story was going, more than a few punters were leaning forward, chins in their palms, completely engrossed.
Even I, with my cold, walnut-sized brain, was moved by this play and the often overlooked reality it portrayed. To most of us, missing persons are a headline or a poster on a wall. It’s a harsher reality to those closer to the missing.
I'm at the theatre alone, so rather than loiter out in the lobby I go inside and take my seat, watching all the shiny people make their way inside. I soak up the pre-show buzz... whilst yes occasionally glancing at the empty seat beside me and sighing at my lack of plus one (sigh).
A group of about five start to make their way along my row from the far end and it soon becomes obvious that their seats are at the far end to the entrance, but rather than walk around the bank of seats and up to the row via the stairs at the other end, they've decided to do the Scyooze Me shuffle and make everyone pull their knees up. Quite clearly, they are Very Stupid People.
The fuckers actually loiter in my vicinity and talk amongst themselves and I am quite fucking pissed off by this. They are clearly having trouble figuring out where their seats are. I manage to pull off a glare without quite looking directly at them.
Utter twats, I think, how fucking retarded do you have to be to have such difficulty finding your seat in a theatre. It's just rows and numbers, you numbnuts - why all the discussion? How did you get this far in life. Boggles the fucking mind.
They move on, thank God, and loiter at the other end of my row. They look unbelievably lost and unforgivably stupid. Really - some people.
Then one of the fuckers starts making his way back... fuck me what IS their problem?
The fucker bends down to me and says, "Erm... we think that maybe... we were looking at the seats and we thought you might be sitting in one of our seats."
I have never been more superior or so dismissive. "C 38," I mutter with contempt. "Be gone nincanpoop." (I say that last bit with a silently raised eyebrow).
Fucker looks at his ticket. "Well that's the thing. We think this is row D."
A quick check and I find that the fucker is right. I apologise and stand and make a nuisance of myself as I 'scuse myself and make people pull their knees in as I make my way to the real C 38.
I love a whole bunch of music. Music is important to me for a range of reasons. Mostly, people can't really comprehend that I like everything from symphony to psytrance. I just like music that gets inside me and does what it's supposed to do, whether it's to make me stomp with my eyes closed or move me with its honesty.
I was sent a mix tape (mix CD?) by Randolf from Kolliope, a duo who made what's turned out to be one of my favourite albums Oracles & Glands. The compilation is brilliant and a bit spooky in that Randolf managed to pick some classic tracks that for whatever reason I don't have but should have (like California Dreaming by Mamas & The Papas), tracks by artists I love like Tom Waits (genius), as well as stuff I hadn't heard before but am totally blown away by. Like this one.
I just read that Joni Mitchell wasn't actually at Woodstock. Her manager booked her on some long forgotten television show because he thought it would be better for her career and she missed Woodstock altogether.
Still, what an awesome piece of music. What an awesome performer.
I've mentioned before that I think my brain has a lot of fun when I'm dreaming and not at the controls. Here's more proof that I have a jokey brain...
Dream goes I meet a friend of mine from a few years back. Her family has taken over Men's Health magazine which I've written a couple of features for (in real life, not in the dream). Long lost friend was always a bit of a prude so it's no real surprise she took out all the bare-chested stuff that's always given the mag's gay connotations.
In the dream, sales were fine for the first issue without the gay connotations. Second issue, not so good. Third issue... things are desperate. My Friend needs the Gordon Ramsay of Magazines With Gay Connotations.
I say hello Former Friend... What's up?
I get the gist and get all Gordon Ramsay on her ass and say you have to put back all the chesty stuff. In fact I'm so talented in this dream that I say we have to start promoting that new movie. Lets do a photo shoot with lots of bare torso'ed guys who are members of a book club, because the movie is called Book Club.
Which is totally gay.
My friend goes ooh, all right, if we have to.
I say yeah, it'll be great. The movie is called Bookclub, and it's about all these hunky bare torso guys getting together each week to talk about books. And you have this guy who looks like Brad Pit who says, "The first rule of Book Club is you DO NOT talk about Bookclub."
And in the dream my friend was chuffed because she thought I was brilliant and I was chuffed because I thought I was brilliant and but and then I woke up and went what? What?
Should be in bed but I had to stay up to finish a story for Drum. Did the interview the other day with the director of the Australian premier of My Name Is Rachel Corrie. I enjoyed the interview and I know it went well because later the publicist emailed and said something like so I heard that went well. The publicist could only have gotten that feedback from the director.
If you know me you know I haven't studied a Goddamn thing in my life. I like writing Silly and sometimes I'm good at it. I also like writing Sad. And dark And Disturbing. but I'm amateur at all of them.
I haven't known about interviews and making stories out of them, but I'm getting to be not too bad. This was the first phoner I haven't squirmed at even a little bit. The story, I think, works. (Although I'd like to have had another thousand words).
Helps when the topic is so interesting. My Name Is Rachel Corrie is about a 23 year old peace activist who was killed in Gaza in 2003. Complex and really quite moving stuff. Apparently the entire text of the play is her writing. Creators Allan Rickman and Katharine Vine have played with time lines but have basically edited Rachel's words from her emails and diary entries into a play.
Looking forward to seeing the play. Will post my interview with Shannon Murphy when it's out in the mag.
Whoa. Big weekend. Fun and music and random friends and I fell over. I never fall over, but the ground seemed particularly wobbly and I fell all the way over. It was pretty funny. Then the wind came and the tent shelter thing I was snoozing in fell on me and it was all very flappy and confusing. More details later maybe, but it was all a lot of fun. Even the grumpy bits. At one point I was hurling things through my tent flap like a right fucking drama queen... The Dreaded One and I laughed about that a short time later. She is quality and anger is short lived with us.
But I've been tagged by Damien at Crime Downunder. The meme rules are that you have to open the nearest book to page 123 and quote sentences 6, 7 and 8. I'm rounding it up a little to cover a couple more sentences just to give some context. Lenny Bruce was an amazing man who lead a strange life. Fascinating story.
Although I'm working on a crime story of sorts at the moment, one of the books I'm reading is The Trials Of Lenny Bruce. Page 123:
Marks: Have you ever heard of the word "moralist"?
Block: Yes sir.
Marks: Would you apply that to Mr Bruce?
Block: No, sir. I'd say he was more of a satirist.
Marks: Something like a dirty Will Rogers?
Block: I would say you could call him a dirty Will Rogers, yes.
I'm going to tag Kat, Meva, Girl Clumsy, Mark and Amra. Okay... so I've just realised that Amra has tagged me with the same meme. Funny. Maybe, instead, the avid reader Y. Whether anyone wants to play or not, who knows?
Right. Body and mind need rest now. Why does crazy fun hurt so much? But you know - in the craziness of the party I remember a friend - The Dreaded One's best friend - putting a blanket over me and later taking me by the hand to lead me somewhere nice. I don't have a lot of friends but little things like that, I'm a sucker for them. When they see you at your worst and still do something kind for you, you know they are a quality friend.
All you can do is be grateful stuff like that and always try to do the same for others.
I didn't have to review the performance last night, but my cold, walnut-sized brain couldn't help itself. I feel this is a better review than the one of Brilliant Monkey.
I'm interested in this thing about the contract between performer (or writer) and audience because in the post below, which is a monthly column I write for a magazine, I'm probably going to switch from what basically happened to 'imagine if this happened'. I think some things are funnier when you know it actually happened... unless from the start you've established that it's all fiction.
I dunno. It's like you establish what we both expect out of this thing (slap-stick, fantasy, hard-boiled etc), and as a reader or audience member you shift your mind-set accordingly.
Read the review and let me know what you think. Or not. I don't care.
(The Japanese reference is kind of a joke from the show and I would love to tell you what the T shirt bit was all about because I fucking howled with laughter, but I don't want to spoil LL's joke. If he was selling those T shirts after the show I would totally have bought one).
LAWRENCE LEUNG LEARNS TO BREAKDANCE
Lawrence Leung tries to learn to break dance because it’s the only way he feels he can out-cool his brother. This is warm comedy, nice, human, touchy feely stuff which had moments of real hilarity. In fact it was so warm and nice and occasionally so funny that I feel like a bit of a shit saying that although it was good, I’ve seen way better.
The contract here between performer and audience is that this is all real: Lawrence Leung really does embark on a mission to be cool. His brother has it all over Lawrence in the areas of fashion, ladies and ‘tude, so Lawrence decides he will out-cool his bass guitar-playing brother in dance.
Look, it’s funny, this goofy “documentary” style comedy. In concept and execution, the fashion segment was really funny. The *Japanese characters on the designer T shirt piece was laugh out loud funny. Seriously good stuff.
But why did he bother looking astonished at the Rubic’s cube set-up? Do the piece but please don’t pretend that this is all some freaky coincidence because it totally breaks the contract between performer and audience. Leung himself has described his act as documentary comedy... there is no place for faking stuff in documentary.
An audience will suspend disbelief if that’s the deal... fuck it – you can take us to the moon on a giant banana if we know it’s fantasy, but when we see a performer lie and pretend something fake is real it just undermines the rest of the show. What else in this “documentary” comedy was fiction? If it’s fiction, be up-front about it. We’ll be as cool as Dennis with that.
Audiences everywhere have been loving this show, so maybe I’m just a being weird about this contract thing. Lawrence Leung Learns To Breakdance, for me, was uneven but had a good heart. And yes, quite a few funny bits.
Ooh I am getting into this 'To Be Continued ' stuff, aren't I. Wonder if I can get out of it.
Here is a slightly different version of my Grumpy column which goes to print in Tsunami shortly.
Grumpy
Lee Bemrose
So we get home after another drinking session, my best mate and me. We’re monstered. We have totally wobilised ourselves. We are dribblingly incoherent but have somehow made it back home where we can properly swear and laugh and carry on like a couple of idiots. We have somehow acquired pizza, which is a good thing. Fuck knows who paid for it. Fuck knows what flavour it is. But it’s all good.
Girlfriend is asleep so we pretend we are being quiet for a bit. We pretend that crashing bottles and bumpy walls and slamming doors are easily slept-through. “Shhhh!” we tell each other a lot as we fall about, clinging to the walls. I have no idea what it is that we are laughing about, but it’s obviously pretty damned funny.
It’s all good, I tell myself. Mates do this kind of shit all the time and the girlfriend is fine. She’ll be pissy if we, I dunno, if I pee in the kitty litter box again or anything like that, but it should be all right. One more beer and finish the pizza and off to bed.
Suddenly my mate lets out a shriek indicating that an unforgivable injustice has just taken place. It’s a tiny little rip in her jeans (did I mention my best mate is a chick? Maybe not. Maybe this is why things go pear-shaped).
“Whassup?” I ask.
“Rrrrip,” she explains, pointing at her denim-clad thigh with its miniscule rip. “Oh fuck me look at that.”
“Oh well,” I wittily retort, re-focusing my unfocused eyes on the pizza.
I am so drunk by this time that I’m not even sure what my real name is, so when Best Mate decides that the solution to her wardrobe malfunction is to remove her jeans and finish eating her pizza in the tiniest little pair of panties I’ve ever tried so hard to not look at, I just kind of shrug and go yeah, cool, whatever.
But then I’m kind of thinking maybe I should even things up and take off my own jeans and finish eating our pizza in my undies or something. Because, you know maybe drinking beer and eating pizza in your undies with your best mate is what all the cool people are doing.
I spend the next few minutes trying to recall whether I put on a cool pair of undies this morning or a daggy pair. It just about does my head in because although I have a couple of really cool undies I’d be proud eat pizza in with my closest friends, there are a couple of shockers I know I would never live down.
My mental undies crisis ends when Best Mate slowly leans forward and goes face down totally unconscious into the pizza, leaving me torn between getting the hell out of there and leaving her to fend for herself, and taking off my pants and passing out in the pizza because maybe this will bring us even closer together.
I've got a fair bit of writing I have to do this week and I'm writing a short story that I'm pretty excited about. It's moody as hell and although I've actually just come out of a mood fug and am feeling pretty happy, I don't really want to write anything funny. I just want to write about this character, Ruben Jane. So far, the story feels at least as good as Remembering Argos. It's called Leaving Ruben Jane, and it's got The Thing. First really good fiction I've written in a while and I'm hoping that being so hooked on the rhythm of language is going to finally spill over and really get me into fiction again. It's all about love, death and the rhythm of language, baby.
But last night, after a really good day at The Big Pointy Building I got home and watched Zoolander. I'd forgotten how much I like this movie. I think it is just about comedy perfection. Excellent cast, really funny writing and great comic acting. Think I'm going to go get a copy today.
I have to stay moody for Ruben Jane so I don't want to try to write anything that my cold, walnut-sized brain thinks is funny. But watch this clip. This is a very funny movie.
I was talking to someone in the kitchen at The Big Pointy Building today about the rare times in our lives we had won things. She had won an Easter Egg decorating competition at school, which was was quite prophetic (visit her blog and you'll see what I mean).
I remembered the time I won something, and it went a little like this: (Please note, each * indicates embellishment for comic purposes)...
When I started out on my tennis addiction phase I was not very good. But I get good when I get these obsessions. At the time of this little story, however, I was not very good at playing tennis.
However I was obsessed and I bought all the clothing and drooled over racquets I couldn't afford and I'd stay up all night watching people who were good at playing. And I bought Tennis Weekly, or whatever the damn mag was called. Bought it every week. Sometimes I bought it twice a week because when I get hooked on something, I am hard fucking core.
One week, they had a caption competition and I thought bugger me, I like writing silly shit, I think I'll enter.
I thought of a hilariously inventive caption for EVERY photo and assumed I'd win something. I even wondered if the judges would have the integrity to give me first, second and third prizes... all of which I wholly deserved.
Next mag came out and after a quick scan I felt a bit crap because I didn't rate a mention. Another, more detailed read and I found I'd actually won the first prize I assumed I was going to win. I'd won an amazing, imported, thousand buck Donnay. The picture alone took my breath away to the accompaniment of Heaven's own angels singing their praise.
The Donnay (as I referred to it forever after) arrived in the mail. It was kind of as if King Arthur had been mailed Excalibur. This was the stuff of unfolding legends.
When I turned up at the new tennis club with Excalibur in its shoulder bag, people took notice. I kid you not, people looked. People talked. The guy at the booking desk even asked where I got hold of such a racquet, such was the awe it inspired.
"You won it?"
"Yeah, in a competition."
"He won it," he said, turning to his assistant. "In competition."
Fuck me, I thought, that came out way wrong. Before I had a chance to explain, the guy said, "So you're pretty good?"
"I was pretty good in this particular competition, but you know..."
"Wow," desk guy said to his assistant, "cool and modest. We have to check him out."
A crowd had gathered by the time I made my way to court 7, and all I could do was pray to the powers that be that something magical was about to happen... something... please?
No theatre reviews this week, just a couple of stories covering a couple of acts for Sydney's Cracker Comedy Festival. There is rather a lot of comedy on offer at the moment.
You know what shits me most about the mental midget who left the comment about me being inept in the previous post? It's not their criticism, it's the fact that they did it anonymously. How pathetic can you be? I have to write stuff about the work of others, which is something I've always had a bit of a problem with (for the last couple of years that I've been doing it), but my name always appears at the end of the review, positive or negative. Clumsily written or well written.
And some limp-dick thinks it's okay to slag me off without leaving their name.
I reviewed this play and I didn't like it very much. Crapping hell it bored me. So I said as much in the review.
I generally look up what other reviewers have been saying after I've written my review and it was hilarious how much all the others have been gushing about this one, compared to mine.
What could I do? I really was quite bored with it and I really didn't think the humour was very funny, but with so much opinion being so opposite, I must have just been in a grumpy mood. Still, this was my experience of this play and I had to send it in.
Odd, because I had been in quite a good mood before going into the theatre. And yet... was my mood such a factor in my not enjoying the play?
I don't know. I'm not sure about very much at the moment. Given the evidence, I probably got it wrong with this one. Just have to roll with it.
Half a week later: And look, because the comments have been good and supportive (and I do appreciate that), read one of the many positive reviews about an earlier version of the play. This review, like so many others, would make me want to see the play, and there must have been something about it that made me want to see it regardless. It really does sound like the kind of theatre I'm into but there was obviously something wrong with me on this occasion.
It's been an interesting process. I am very tempted to go back and see the thing this afternoon. Now there's an idea...
I have this habit of going over stories I've sent into the mag and seeing ways of improving them. I tweak and resend. I did this recently and received an email from my editor. He said, "Here's a bit of advice: Let it go. When you re-send stories I've usually already subbed them and I just have to re-do the whole thing."
I've bitten my tongue forever in the past. Sub-editing is a strange craft and a lot of editors aren't quite as good at it as they like to think they are. Subbing is not about changing the text to suit yourself. Subbing is about getting things right - facts and tone and the voice of the thing. Let the piece have its own voice. And make sure the facts are right.
I've seen some really weird shit come out in my stories and I'm generally not too much of a princess about it. The part in this story, in the Bill Hicks piece that says something about weak semen? Totally not my words. A staff writer was obviously told to Penthouse-it-up a little and he added that bit. I thought it was an odd thing to do but what the hell. And that was all he added so again, what the hell. Whatever.
But when editors change things and make them worse I fucking hate it. Happens all the time when you're writing humour - a joke will go over their head and they change the words so it makes some sense to them and it totally fucks up the joke. If I were a more important writer I would demand final proofing rights.
But in reply to the piece of advice about letting it go, I wrote back saying, "Yeah well, you might want to take a look at the tag line I sent you compared to the one that went to print after you subbed it. One was accurate, the other was not. I'll be sending the next review to you shortly. Have your way with it. I'll have my fingers crossed."
It's amusing to think of bitchy stuff like that, I just don't know about the wisdom of sending it.
But send it I did because what the hell. Whatever.
Because of this post, I'm writing this when I really should be sleeping.
I wrote this story and thought it went well. There was something about the writer that I liked. I wanted to meet him on opening night because... I dunno. I just like something about him.
Anyway, I went along and knew it wasn't going to happen. Packed theatre, my tenuous connection with him was preoccupied with everyone else. I set Ann's jacket on fire and then we went in to see the play.
At the end of the play these two old ladies came over and just started talking to Ann about her hair. One wanted to touch her dreads. Then they kept talking about chick stuff and I was starting to get a bit thing about it all. I mean, I wanted to see the play and meet the playwright, and here are these two old women, charming and lovely as they are, going on about Ann's hair.
I kind of wanted to leave because the night was not what I'd planned, but they were really quite cool people and fuck it, cool people are cool. We chatted and it was really nice.
Then one of the women asked me what I thought of the play. I said I liked it. We talked for a bit and it turned out that she had read my interview with the writer and liked it a lot. Turned out she also knew the playwright quite well; he is her nephew. The other woman his mother.
Moments later, Caleb came over to say hello to his mum and his aunt. Aunt Jill introduced me and he was civil but was obviously having a night when every bastard wanted to chat with him. Then Jill told him I was the guy who wrote the Gorillas In Our Midst piece and his face melted into happy creases and his hand shot out for a real handshake... it was just a totally good moment.
Playwright In Demand was devoured by the night, Ann and I spent some more time talking to these lovely older people, then we went home.
There will always be the boy from the fucked up family in the dreary suburbs whose eyes will flicker over at the end of a night like this who will think as he drifts into sleep, good yeah? Yeah, good. Yeah, sometimes it's pretty good.
I say I don't like it, but I fucking do... when you finish work and have slotted in an hour to finish a story and you manage to do it and feel good about it, and there's someone saying please where is the funny column you promised but there's no time no time no time because you have to bolt to the theatre because there's something you have to review before another deadline.
And then the play is good and you have a lovely night in a most unexpected way. I loved tonight. I loved it for reasons I'll try to go into later, reasons I just didn't expect, people I didn't expect to meet. It was a very cool night.
But read this next little bit, which is my next Grumpy column for Tsunami, and... look I dunno. Sometimes shit is funny, innit.
Grumpy
Standing in front of the mirror at home, she says how cool is this jacket that I haven’t worn for ages and which is now my new favourite jacket all over again? How sexy is this jacket? How lucky are you?
I’m all, ooh babe, it’s sexy and you are too. My favourite girl is wearing her favourite jacket, which makes you look hot ‘n stuff. How lucky am I?
(Said jacket is hard to describe... its backdrop is grey with all these little white tufts that come out like candle-wicks. Very out-there, very cool).
We get to the theatre opening night because that’s the kind of cosmopolitan life we lead. I’m a smooth theatre writer dude with this awesome chick that everyone wants to know. Sometimes they want to know me too, but that hardly ever happens. Mainly it’s just her with her hair and her clothes and her sparkly eyes and I’m just usually crying in the corner in this rugged and manly way... (I made that last bit up).
Aaaanyway... we’re at a table having a cosmopolitan chat over a cosmopolitan glass of wine when this fucking hellish Godawful stench just about knocks everyone in the theatre out cold. Like, if Satan did a sloppy number twos on your BBQ while you were cooking satay skunk skewers and then all the neighbourhood cats lined up to piss out the flames, this stench would be worse.
A nearby cosmopolitan theatre-goer leans over and tells me something I really don’t want to hear: “I think your jacket’s on fire.”
Only, it’s not my jacket, is it. I mean, I moved said jacket to the side of the table to make room for my elbow, but the fire is coming from my girlfriend’s re-discovered favourite sexy jacket which I have absently shoved across into the vicinity of the very low candlelight.
How lucky am I?
And at intermission, is everyone talking about the play? No – they are jokingly asking about The Burning Jacket Incident. Hahahaa...
Okay so this is a cack: I'm sitting here a few moments ago writing to someone and this amazing white moths flaps and struggles at the window and makes its way through the blinds. It flutters up and lands on the roof and I stop what I am writing to say something like "Whoa - this really white moth just came into the room. It's beautiful like a snowflake."
It doesn't bat about the light like other moths, it just sits there on the ceiling directly above my head. Is it looking at me? Why did it want to come inside and why did it land exactly above my head? What is it thinking?
I think maybe it's a good omen. I think maybe some good stuff is going to happen. I mean, it's landed right above my head. Oh goody.
That weekend was rather large. The Dreaded One and I had Thursday off and because we had been gearing up for the festival (see below) we felt like not going out. Sitting in The Old Fitzroy enjoying a chilled glass of white on Thursday afternoon, I saw that Dave Seaman and Nick Fanciulli were playing that night. We waved goodbye to sobriety and swan dived into the abyss.
It was a one-thing-lead-to-another kind of weekend that quite frankly I am glad is over (good thing and too much and everything). At one point an MC was doing some fucked up voice stuff over the music a DJ friend was playing in a warehouse and I was trying to explain Senor Aubergine to a drunk lawyer... and I don't think that was the silliest thing that happened. ("You know - an eggplant with arms and eyes and dancing asparagus feet and I'm telling you this because I think if you listen closely the vocalist mentions him... he likes to tango... no the eggplant, not the MC... although I don't know him very well so maybe he does like the tango...")
Anyway, all systems are returning to normal and I will have words to write a little later. For now, all I can manage is hitting the scan button. Here is the interview with Caleb Lewis for Men, Love and the Monkeyboy.
I'm not where I was supposed to be this weekend. I was supposed to be here, only two years later. I was really looking forward to this party. I wanted to plant some trees. I wanted to be outdoors at this amazing place with so many smiling party people.
The guys who organise these events grew 5,000 small trees from seeds and spent around $20,000 setting the event up, and after giving initial approval for the event, the local council backflipped at the last minute and the event had to be canceled. International DJs and live PAs had been booked, plans had been made... 5,000 trees would have been planted, Goddamnit.
It sounds a bit conspiracy theory (but also not), but apparently there's a tactic they use in the USA where authorities give initial approval for outdoor events, allow the promoters to invest all their time and energy, then pull the plug at the last minute. Do that a couple of times and most promoters go broke. I spoke to one of the promoters of this event and he said in hindsight that's exactly what it felt like had happened. And he said it will work because he can't keep doing this. But he said he will organise an event to make sure the trees go in the ground, it will just be without the party element.
I don't know exactly what the issues were that went against this event - one that has been going now for about four years without any hitches at all. I do know that local businesses have lost income. And I do know that issues of safety and evacuation were raised but representatives of the event were not allowed to speak at the meeting to defend the safety precautions the promoters have in place.
It's hard not to believe that we are looking at a crackdown on outdoor events of this nature. If there were real and justifiable safety concerns, why were they not raised earlier. It's the initial approval/last minute disapproval that's so suspicious. Not to mention plain spiteful. There were no sponsors involved, all the funds came out of the pockets of hard-working individuals trying to do a good thing.
The international DJs will get a chance to play tonight. A club was hastily booked as a bit of a fund-raiser to cut the losses the promoters have so unfairly incurred. It will be a good party, no doubt... but we just wanted to be outside with the elements and we wanted to plant some trees. What is so wrong with that?
Mostly when I pull 10 to 15 hour days Faux Chefing at The Big Pointy Building, it's so busy I can't remember what I tell people my real name is. Other times... rare times... it's apparently a little less busy.
Then again, there are those times after long insomniac nights and longer days when an eggplant with arms really does leap right out of its vegie box and say, "Heeeey... I am Señor Aubergine who likes very much the tango dance..."
Top and centre (click on the image to make big, obviously) is me about five years ago with one of my most treasured friends. I would love to know what I had just said to get such a reaction. And yeah, funny we are both wearing T Shirts with big faces.
Lovely, lovely person and a very cool friend. We tried recently to recall what had happened at the time the picture was taken. She's been nagging me for ages to get on Skype so we can chat, so I suggested that was what she was saying... "When I move to New Zealand in a few years time, you'd better get Skype or I'll keep nagging you!"
The way it works is the person you're interviewing tells you when they are available. You work around that because they are the subject and you are just the messenger. With Laurie Anderson I said I was unavailable when she was available twice before getting the interview... I still don't believe I did that and that I did finally chat to her.
Anyway, latest thing is with a playwright called Caleb Lewis. He's written a play called Men, Love, And The Monkey Boy. I was to phone him at 10.30am this morning.
12 hours before the phone chat time I was ensconced in a food and wine orgy that was quite Roman. There are still bottles. Empty bottles. Lots of them. But in the back of my mind I knew I had to come up with some questions and sound reasonably intelligent and but in the end what the woo hoo... pass me some more wine you fuckers...
In the wee small hours I ooze through sleep and see this bit of journalistic excellence unfold in my dreams: "Fuck. I know we've only just started, but I've totally run out of questions. Can you just talk for a while please?"
A short time later the Dreaded One wakes me asking, "Was there something you had to get up to do before we go to work?"
"Yer," I droobled through my oozledreams, "but that's ages away... FUCK!"
Anyway, what I did was, I went in nude. I had nothing. I didn't have my usual way too many questions. I freestyled, baby. I just hit the guy's number and when we started talking, I listened. I listened and reacted and I barely looked at the three questions I'd written when drunk the night before prior to crashing out.
I think I got some good stuff and I am looking forward to writing this one up.
And for the first time in many, many months, I spent a day feeling happy. Days like today, I almost feel like I know what I am doing.
I am getting lazy with this blogging thing, aren't I? Why write when you can just scan and post? Here are a couple of recent reviews for Drum. I saw Keeper at Belvoir St last Sunday and have to write the review for that today. It was a tight little drama that I quite enjoyed. The two reviewed here are very different creatures but I also enjoyed them a lot.
Got in touch with Time Out mag (Sydney version) and one of the editors there seemed keen to get me on board. She's the former editor of another magazine I write for (incidentally, what the hell is going on when you can be contributing to five different magazines and still have to slog your arse off at other jobs to make ends meet? There is something very wrong) and she asked if I'd like to contribute to the comedy pages. The above Q & A was a last minute rush job that I had to do via email. Interesting thing from my point of view is how much personality was taken out of the questions. For example, the one about Sydney versus Melbourne? What I actually asked Hughesy was, "I’m a Sydney-sider born and bred and I’ve always thought Sydney crapped all over Melbourne. But then I recently actually went to Melbourne and at the risk of re-igniting the Melbourne versus Sydney debate, Melbourne actually craps all over Sydney. Like, really. All over it. In every conceivable way. Better bars, better pubs, better restaurants, better theatres, better comedians, better trams, better footpaths... it’s just a much, much, much better city. Do you agree?"
But what came out was a question that is totally bland. I dunno. For me, kind of took the fun out of it.
Anyway, that's how it goes. And it highlights the beauty of street press - they generally allow contributors much more freedom to be silly. Still, Time Out is quality and overall the tone of the mag is one I'm drawn to. If I keep writing for them I'll find my Time Out voice and all will be sweet.
Okay so it's not a photo of me on the cover of Australian Penthouse (man, if I looked like that I'd never leave the house... I'd just wander about all day checking me out in the mirror and pursing my lips at me and touching me on the boobies and...), but see the bit that says Tragic Comedians? That's the piece I wrote for the mag. So. There you go. I'm on the cover of Penthouse.
And here is the piece. Probably not the funniest thing I've written, but hell, it doesn't get much sweeter than being paid to write a bit of silly. Especially when the research part involved me watching and reading these guys and laughing my arse off.
Here is a very short interview I did recently with Canada's Wet Spots. They are very funny people. Saw the show a couple of nights ago. Will post the review shortly.
oh - and I've just realised that the play featured in the story opposite is the one I saw last night and which I have to write a review for by Monday. Going to be tight given that I have a double shift tomorrow and an all dayer on Sunday. Good play but.
Strange bundle of days... went to a wedding on a beach. Funniest thing ever. Everyone dressed in fantastical strangeness... faeries and angels and demons and pixies and pirates and magicians. It really was a parade of the bizarre on a gorgeous sandy beach. They played Massive Attack's Teardrop as the bride made her appearance. Hit play, listen and agree that it is beautiful.
Vows were swapped and I watched two people tell each other with cracked and trembling voices that they love each other, something, surely, they have already said countless times. Regardless of how unnecessary it was, it was moving. I was moved in a happy way.
Then we walked down the beach to the reception, and the next day we would hear that locals all along the beach sipping their sunset drinks on their verandahs had been agog and amazed and pleasured by this most unexpected of parades.
Stayed with two of the most charming men I have met in a long while. Such utterly charming hosts with a kind of old fashioned sense of hospitality. Their beach house is amazing and they said we are welcome any time and I wished we could have stayed and cooked a meal for them to repay them. Perhaps another time.
Days later I am in court for a bit of stupidity. My solicitor is running late and I am freaking because this is A Big And Serious Place and how the fuck am I going to represent myself? There are barristers and criminals and police and it's another freakshow but without the love and the humour and what the fuck am I doing here?
Sometime later my legal person has showed and we are inside. It's cattle in there. It's odd to me and a perfectly normal day at the office for so many others. I have dressed well but there are others not so fortunate and I feel for them and feel guilty for being as privileged as I am. But we are all there for the same reason. We all want to get off as lightly as possible and get back to our own interpretation of normality.
I watch the judge judge the ones before me. I watch every move, every twitch, every reaction. I listen to the shifts in tone. I start to squirm because he is stony hard and not to be fucked with. I'd hoped for compassion and softness. There is none of that.
One guy, he's 89 years old and went through a world war and was persecuted by the Nazis. Made it to Australia and has been clean that whole time, but now he's started driving through red traffic lights. I am amazed that this whole Nazi thing has come into it, but it's what we are all doing - trying in some way to present ourselves as victims. Playing the sympathy card. But really - Nazis?
Next girl up stands when told to then sits again, and I see she is a real victim. She's fucked on heroin. Here, right now in the courtroom while a Legal Aid chick tries to save her. Heroin girl has the noddies. She's listless and hasn't a clue what's going on. Her mother - surely the most disappointed woman in the world - comes up and shakes her gently but with a sense of urgency to try to make her pay attention. Heroin girl comes to and thinks she has been told to speak to her legal person who is talking jargon with the judge. Man, it's all so wrong. Sit down, go away, pull yourself together... then the judge booms SIT DOWN! and you don't argue with that tone.
Next guy is up and his legal guy says his bit, then Judge Boom asks if the defendant understands the charges. And the defendant lifts this thing up to his throat and it's one of those electronic voice pipe contraptions, and this Dalek buzz comes out and says Yes I do.
And I look sideways at him and think that is fucking genius. There's a broken arm over there and a broken spirit there and now this broken voice... and me in my nice clothes with nothing broken to offer at all.
And after a lifetime it's my turn and it's longer than I want it to be and more confronting than I want it to be and there are hitches and it looks pretty bad. I don't feel good but then I haven't felt good for a long time. This thing has been looming. Thing is, I know my faults and I'm willing to put the tip of the dagger to my throat and say do what you feel is fitting. That's too dramatic, I know, but that's how I feel. I'm just me, these are the facts, do what you feel is the just thing.
Judge Boom has a stare like a fucker, but I know him by now because I've watched, and I stare back. Not a stare with attitude, but just the kind of eye contact he wants. He is talking directly at me, me specifically, and I know every other eye in this packed room is also looking at me, listening to this man's opinion of me. I feel small and uncomfortable but know that this is part of my punishment. These words come out slowly and precisely and there's a theatricality about it all that is kind of wonderful and real and scary as fuck, and you never want to feel it again. Not from this point of view.
And when finally it is over I realise yet again that I am lucky. I get off more lightly than I was expecting. It's not happiness that I feel, it's relief. This thing has been hanging there and it felt like the exclamation mark at the end of a shitty year, and now I know what I am dealing with and I can get it sorted and a new phase can finally start.
Weird bundle of days.
Tomorrow I meet the editor of a mag who recently said "... and what's nicer is us working together again!" (Exclamation mark was hers). Which was a small and cool thing to say. And then two opening nights at the theatre for review and a job to go to and... you know, just some brightness in my version of normality.
Strange Days.
Also, check Peacharse out. You're Not The Only One is blogging for a good cause. It's a cool thing.
I'm often plagued by the 4am Horrors. There's a lot that's wrong with the life I've lead. There's a lot - given the impossible opportunity - that I would change if I had the chance. More than one wannabe has said they have no regrets. Fuck, man, have some of mine; I've got thousands.
But just then, just moments ago... I've been wide awake for a while and the sky is lightening and I've been thinking it's raining but it's just the wind playing with the leaves outside the window. And there's just the silent whirlwind of thoughts in my mind and I'm free-falling through my maelstrom of regret and love and thinking about that time I met that singer and how I've got four editors now and where am I ever going to ever get the money because I'm living on borrowed time and is there happiness and what have I done and then I hear this sound. It's a flock of birds. Rare birds. I remember them from a lifetime ago. They are black cockatoos or corellas, can't recall which. They are flying overhead with their happystrange call, their laugh, their cry that's saying get up silly humans and look at this shining new day. Eeerie laughter in the dawn air.
I'm up and at the window with a smile on my face because I want to see this flock from the past, from when I was a boy in the bush-thick suburbs. But I'm too late and they are gone, their call fading fast. My smile fades. Sweet sound. Sad sound. Music.
I go back to the couch and I sit in the shrinking dark and suddenly it's like time itself is suspended. I'm somewhere between the 4am horrors and the reality of a new day which could bring anything... and it's the weirdest thing but I can see all the people. All the ones who were a part of this particular existence that is me. The ones who made me laugh and the ones who made me cry, the ones who liked me and the ones I hurt... all there, suspended in this still moment.
And that's all really. They were just there. They all played a part in the flawed thing that is me, and that is all.
There's a wedding on a beach today that I wasn't going to go to. But the theme is Magic and I get to wear a plush red cape, so I think I'll go after all.
Apparently February 22 is International Dickhead Day.
I have a 6.30am start at The Big Pointy Building. A breakfast to build as part of my Faux Chefing duties. I am not very happy about this. About the 6.30am bit. I ask the guy at the loading dock if our bread delivery has arrived. He tells me no. I ask if he is sure, because the bakery has promised our delivery would be there at 6am because it's kind of tight with the breakfast being due at 7.30. He insists no, your delivery has not arrived.
A short time later The Dreaded One (who has been doing battle in the car park with dickheads) comes in with our delivery. She says it had been there all the time. This makes me cranky because I asked. I totally asked the guy.
Later in the morning I go back out to the loading dock and I now don't trust anyone there for having a braincell to share between them. I check out the bread deliveries and see the invoices and when the same guy comes over he tells me there is only one crate of bread to pick up.
"And the bagels," I say.
"No," he tells me. "There are no bagels."
"There are bagels," I retort.
"No."
"Umm... yes there are."
"Where?"
"In the crate with our invoice on it for bagels... you know what?" I add, hearing a snap. I had not intended mentioning the earlier incident, but this thing inside me snaps. "You know earlier when I asked if our bread delivery had arrived?"
"Yes."
"And you said no?"
"Yes."
"You could have told me our croissants were here. I was waiting for the croissants."
"Ah. Oh. Well yes you see when we say bread here we mean bread, and when - "
"Are you for real? Next time if I come here and ask if our bread is here and a delivery that is not bread but has come from a bakery is here, can you please bring that up in the conversation?"
Dickhead skulks off like I've done something wrong.
The day was long. It was not a good day to have a short fuse with dickheads. They were everywhere.
Funniest thing was that Head Chef had been arriving just as I was explaining things to the loading dock guy about bakery products and efficiency and dickheadery, and he saw me glaring at the guy and karate chopping the air with enthusiasm. He was quite amused that quiet ol' me was ripping into a dickhead.
Nevertheless... dickheads were everywhere. All day long. Celebrating International Dickhead Day with unrelenting dickheadery. Dickheads.
Me at Rainbow Serpent being not quite as untypically enthusiastic as I like to think I am: "... and I love the clouds in the sky and the feel of the breeze on my skin... and the music, man I love the music... and dancing during the day and vodka and cold watermelon juice and this tree... how cool is this tree? It's a seriously cool tree. And doof chicks. You cannot beat doof chicks. You can just tell their farts smell like sandalwood and they poo rainbows."
Two cases in point - The Dreaded One and the lovely Kate.
Incidentally, at the risk of speaking too much about poo... I first met Kate when she emerged from the bushes at a doof, her exquisite face twisted in disgust. The first words I heard her say were, "I've just stepped in poo. I think it's human poo."
I assumed at the time it was just a ploy to keep the boys away. It didn't work. At least five guys dropped to their knees and offered cleanse her foot. One even leaned over to me and said, "I want to make babies with her."
I have to interview The Wet Spots in the next couple of days. They're a musical comedy act from Canada who apparently sing songs about things you shouldn't put into your bottom, doing the labia limbo (I'm hopeless at exotic dancing so I don't think I'll attempt that one), a strange sounding activity called 'fisting' (which is probably a typo that was mean't to be 'fishing'), and apparently their show involves a fair bit of arse-spanking too.
I think they sound like a bit of a crack up. They'll be appearing at The Studio, Sydney Opera House between February 27 - February 29. My deadline to have the story done is February 19. Check out their website and their blog and if you can think of any questions you'd like me to ask them, leave them in the comments box and I'll see if I can include them in the story. If I get enough entertainingly raunchy and twisted questions I'll do the whole piece as a Q&A, with credits to the filthy minds who came up with the questions, of course.
And if I don't get any interesting questions... you're all a bunch of lazy bastards and you can go to hell.
Ooh - update. I've just been reading some of Cass King's writing. Very funny stuff and well worth checking out.
As a writer, one of the ways I make a living is by masquerading as a chef. It’s often a stressful environment but the only way to deal with a stressful situation is to be chilled about the whole thing. Get the job done properly, sure, but do it calmly. Being a stress-head just isn’t a good look. Stress-heads get this whole arm-flapping thing going. They run around with neck veins and forehead veins bulging doing and saying ridiculous things while the rest of us stand there scratching our heads and wondering what the fuck their problem is because generally speaking, millions of people are not going to die during the course of this perfectly presented meal, no matter what kind of shit is going down behind the kitchen door.
I’m looking after a small function. I’ve got my shit together with about 40 minutes to kill before the function starts. I am chilled, because I am The Chill Master. I am Ice Man. I am The Snow Man... actually Ice Man sounds better. So. I am Ice Man.
Anyway, a call comes through that there's been a stuff up and the function is actually due to start in 10 minutes. The caller is not chilled. He is the embodiment of freak-out, complete with flappy arms and bulging veins, and where my attitude is ‘can-do’, his is ‘ohmygodohmygodwe’reallgonnadie’. He is Freaktard.
I sashay to the function room and set out my kit. Cold canapes are prepped, hot ones to follow shortly. I have minutes to spare. All the time in the world.
“Lookout! Look out!” Freaktard screams as he makes his appearance. It’s his job to set up the drinks and take the platters of food to the guests. “Out of my way! Whoa that was close! Look out!”
He’s wheeled the crate of drinks around the corner at a comical angle and disappeared in a barely-seen streak that carries loose objects in its wake. I scratch my head and wonder what the fuck his problem is.
Soon the kitchen hands arrive with my hotbox full of hot canapes. They have encountered Freaktard on the way and have picked up on his vibe. They do their impression of The Two Stooges as they frantically manouvre the hotbox into the small kitchen the wrong way around, which is the way they do everything anyway. I point out the obvious in my most Zen Master tone and they Mo & Curly Joe the hotbox around and guide it into place. There is not much room in this particular kitchen and I have to tell Curly Joe to stop and plug the hotbox in before wheeling it completely into place. He bends down and starts to unwind the cord.
“Look out! Look out!” Freaktard squeals as he throws himself into the already crowded kitchen. “Hurry up! Hurry up! Push the hotbox in there! Guests arriving shortly! Come on! Come on!”
Fucker is shoulder barging the hotbox into place.
“Freaktard,” I say in an ubercool and soothing tone, “please stop pushing. You’re squishing Curly Joe.”
“What? Oh. Well. Hurry up hurry up! I’ve got an emergency to deal with here!”
I help the very confused and now thin looking kitchen hand from behind the hotbox as Freaktard mutters something about a dustpan and broom.
Now I haven’t been involved in very many emergencies in my time, but the ones I have been involved in haven’t had anything to do with dustpans and brooms. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever heard of an emergency involving a dustpan and broom. While Freaktard flaps his arms about I think about saying, “Dude – unless you’re about to perform a life-saving procedure with a dustpan and broom, I really don’t think that – technically speaking – it’s an emergency. Certainly not an emergency of such magnitude that the squishing of a hapless kitchen hand is justified.”
But I remain silent. And amused.
And the guests are late because that’s how guests are, and while Freaktard’s heart-rate returns to normal and he deals with his sweat problem, I calmly go about my business of prepping the food, not a hair out of place. Like the food, I am fucking immaculate.
My humour piece is out in the current issue of Australian Penthouse. It's five short interviews I recently did with comedians Bill Hicks, Lenny Bruce, John Belushi, Richard Pryor and Peter Sellers, all of whom are quite dead. It was fun to write and if you live in Australia please go out and buy it and if you enjoy it write to the magazine and tell them you think they should use me a lot more. Ta.
Speedy blog post. Am on the treadmill again, so here are a couple more memories to keep me going. Loved that water truck cooling down the dancefloor. Loved that dancefloor. Love party friends.
Gotta go cram in another couple of long days before having Friday off. Friday I have to sort out my life and write a short play.
Then the weekend and no shop obligations... therefore we doof.
Hello again. I am back from my first Rainbow Serpent Festival and am having a little trouble adjusting to reality. I'm also having trouble getting used to the fact that 2008 was my first Rainbow. It was a perfect party and I felt completely at home immediately. Bit of a trek getting there given that we flew down and had to bus it into the site with all of our gear, but once there and set up it was just brilliant... and it felt especially like being home given the amount of people The Dreaded One and I knew. We set up in a predominantly Sydney area with loads of people we hadn't seen in ages. Word had gotten out that we closed our shop and so many people expressed sadness... quite moving.
Still, it was all about good times and dancing, and bloody hell did we dance. I've now gone my full journey from clubbing to doofing to learning to let go and dance sober in the daylight to realising that daytime dancing is what really does it for me. Nothing beats getting out of bed after a full night's sleep and joining the dancefloor mayhem when the sun is coming up and dancing all day long. The crazies are all out and it's a total, wonderful, happy freakshow.
And okay, so the being sober bit goes out the window, but so do inhibitions and hangups and thoughts of the real world. Everyone is just there to dance and laugh, and I will never be happier than when I'm stomping with my big dumb grin on my face.
These are a couple of random images. I'll post more in coming posts. The dancefloor was pretty rammed the whole time with an ebb and flow between stages, but the Market stage was a cack. Water trucks and mist pipes sent everyone even more silly.
I sat on my sunnies and was briefly obsessed with the eye patch effect, until I bought a pair of totally not-me sun glasses that I got very attached to. So much so that at one point, lying in a hammock with The Dreaded One, I started flapping about and checking my Pants Of Many Pockets and declaring, "Where are my new glasses? I'm going to be very pissed if I've lost my new glasses." The Dreaded One shook her head in awe and told me that they were on my face. So me.
Hello. I appear to be back. And I appear to have messed up this photo bit quite nicely. How unlike me. I'm hoping that if you click on them they will magically go big.
Anyway, here a few random shots of the first stage of our random road trip.
The horse playing the guitar is a very funny man called Dave (Daheen). He produces some very cool tracks... all quite political in an eco way but very dancefloor friendly and he keeps the mood up by putting on a different mask for each track. Very silly, very fun. There's also a shot of the mushroom headed mothwomen who were probably fairies and not moths. Either way, they were strangely sexy, as almost all doof chicks are. They were also a lot of fun.
There's a shot of The Dreaded One and me at some seaside port after Exodus, a dancefloor shot of the party (the psytrance stage was not the main one but it went off the most and by far had the most energy and colour... although this particular shot was taken when that dancefloor was not at its fullest).
And there is me sitting up high on a rock at Boonoo Boonoo Falls. I'm not sure why I look so concerned while in such an idyllic place... but then again that's the kind of person I am. Perhaps I was thinking that the view from up there was so pretty it hurts. Or perhaps I was just concerned about how much my ankle hurt after dancing so much. I think I stumbled into a bit of a dip in the ground and pulled a muscle. It hurt like buggery but I kept on dancing because I am a dancefloor warrior. It is only now returning to normal size, I have almost full mobility and the pain has almost gone. Just in time for Rainbow Serpent. We leave for that in a couple of days.
Just got back from seeing this. I am still smiling. More camp than I was expecting, every bit as tribal and stirring as I was expecting. If you are in Sydney, please go and see it. It will make your soul happy. Being human is about dancing and having fun. Will try to write more about these sublime harmonies and kick-arse dance moves tomorrow.
Also, I pick up my new glasses tomorrow. My eyesight is not as perfect as it once was. They are sexy specs though.
And road trip is booked in... except some of it is air trip. Exodus next weekend, then Rainbow Serpent in Victoria. Happy? Hell yeah.
PS, Read comments for a few more details. It's Thursday now, and I'm outa here. Will be getting festy for the next week or so.
I am officially, 100% on holidays. This fact came to me again and again throughout the day, like the ocean waves pounding against a windswept shoreline. I would be caught up in some mindless activity, some mere chore, some absent manouvre of manual dexterity which, together with all the other deeds performed throughout the day enable me to put - as they say - a roof over my head - when another wave of pleasure welled up and hurled itself upon the desolate beach of my innermost thoughts and I would offer in return a frail smile, like a gift that the tentative giver is quite unsure will stir within the receiver quite the desired emotions. Perhaps the gift will be mis-interpreted and some imagined slight be born, like the seed of a small frond destined to be a great and mighty oak tree...
Okay okay. Horrible, isn't it. I've been reading some Murakami and he makes me cranky. Why does he write the shit out of everything? Check this from a story about the wind: "Outside in the absence of sound, the trees - Himalayan cedars and chestnuts, mostly - squirmed like dogs with an uncontrollable itch. Swatches of cloud cover slipped across the sky out out of sight like shifty-eyed secret agents, while on the verandah across the way several shirts wrapped themselves around a plastic clothesline and were clinging frantically, like abandoned orphans."
Is he taking the piss? What the fuck is all of that? Three similes in one short paragraph about the wind is way too many. And as if the squirming dog-trees and shifty-eyed secret agent clouds weren't bad enough, that orphan thing doesn't even make sense. If the orphan is clinging surely it has not yet been successfully abandoned. I see a future orphan clinging to its parent's leg which makes it a not-quite orphan caught up in the messy business of being abandoned. It's quite simply not yet an orphan... bah!
So anyway, I'm on holidays. Plan to catch up on a bit of reading. Should be nice... like a Murakami simile is not.
Random writings, stories, magazine theatre reviews and interviews, fiction, and occasionally my bi-weekly column Grumpy, which used to appear in the pages of Tsunami mag. Oh and be sure to check out my ebook, 17 Stories Of Love & Crime.
