The Elevator Of Doom At The Big Pointy Building

I'm Faux Chefing at The Big Pointy Building. I have avoided The Elevator Of Doom all night because too many staff have been trapped in there in the past, sometimes for hours at a time. But tired from running up and down the stairs all night, I think to hell with it, I'll probably be all right for this one trip. I step inside the elevator. The doors start to close when two cute Russian or Polish waitresses dash towards me asking me to hold the elevator. I oblige. They enter. The doors close.. roll credits and cheesy music.

It's just like the opening of a '70s disaster movie, isn't it?

Inside. For a long while The Elevator Of Doom does nothing. We smile at each other nervously. TEOD shudders but doesn't exactly move in an upward direction.

"This is the dodgiest elevator in the world," I say in my best Steve McQueen. "I just hope we come out of this alive."

The girls giggle nervously and smirk demurely and lasciviously simultaneously, obviously in awe of my uncanny resemblance to Steve McQueen.

"Sometimes," I say ruggedly, "it kind of groans a kind of... ominous groan."

One of the girls, a real cutie, she tells me she's heard that groan before.

"Are ve moovink?" she adds. "I cannot tell if ve are moovink."

The elevator starts to move, like an old man getting shakingly to his feet from the toilet where he's just spent half an hour taking a really disappointing dump that he's suddenly not really convinced ever happened because ever since this memory wotsit started to... "What the hell am I doing here?" the old man shouts, "and where in the Goddamn hell are my pyjama pants?"

So. Anyway. Elevator is on the move. We're on our way, and I can't help thinking again that I just hope we get out of this one alive.

There's a moan that sounds like a groan. The very kind of ominous groan we'd just been talking about. In fact it's the very same one. It's an ominous groan of doom that echoes ominously into the doomy room of the hollow void of the elevator shaft and I physically have to slap my Steve McQueen dopplegangy face before I think once again... that I just hope we get out of this one alive.

You know that distance you hold your thumb and forefinger apart to indicate to someone a very small distance? That's how close I come to totally pooping my pants when TEOD wobbles to a stop, then drops sphincter-twitchingly to a stop a lot more than a thumb and forefinger distance of littleness. I'm guessing we've dropped maybe half a floor. Half a floor or two Russian or Polish shrieks of terror long. Either way, both are the same length.

The elevator bounces, and I get really tired of thinking that I just hope we get out of this one alive.

The girls look at me, like I'm supposed to know what to do. I look back at them and think, you think if I wasn't allowed to scream I wouldn't have? You think I'm enjoying this? You think I have a freaking clue what to do? Right now I'm about as heroic as an old man on the crapper wondering what's happened to his pyjama pants! Back off with the gender expectation stuff, cute Eurobitches!

Then I realise I have a self-delusion to uphold.

"Relax, girls," I Steve McQueen to them. "Everything's going to be all right. Just leave this up to me. There's a button, and I'm going to poke it in a reassuringly masculine way."

There's a button with a picture of an old fashioned phone on it, so I poke it, in an old fashioned, reassuringly masculine way."

"Broken Elevator Guy," a voice tells me.

"It's Ste... Lee, known in some circles as Black Rainbow but that's another blog post. Anyway, this elevator is stuck again so you better get someone down here ASPA... PSAP? SAPA... look just get someone down here as soon as possible because I really wanna get out of this one alive."

"Sure thing Steely Black Rainbow, you sit tight, we're on our way. Or as we like to abbreviate, mainly to save time in moments of emergency such as these - WOOW!"

Suddenly nothing happens. Then something happens. A supervisor calls down the hellish empty nothingness of the little crack between the elevator doors but from somewhere above or below us... "Helloooooo....? Are you stuck? Who is stuck in the elevatooooor...?"

"Olga is stuck in zee elevator," one of the girls - whose name I deduce is Olga - calls through the crack in the elevator doors. "And Olga alzo is stuck, and alzo zees amazink man who looks ever so much like that dead actor... agh, vot voz hees name?'

"I think you're thinking of Steve McQueen."

"Veencent Price! Spittink image! It eez eencredible!"

"Who else is trapped inside the elevatooooor....? Vincent?"

"It's Lee," I shout through the crack just as the elevator drops another two Olga shrieks and one Australian fuckinghellthisisridiculous.

"Just for the record," I call to the voice on the outside when my ears have stopped ringing, "it was not Lee who did all that shrieking. We clear on that? Not Lee. Lee did not shriek."

I settle in for the long haul. I look forward to getting to know Olga and Olga and maybe forming lifelong bonds. Maybe we will look forward to reunions long into the future to celebrate our survival. Maybe they will one day bring their kids to these reunions and introduce them to me as Steely Black Rainbow and Steely Black Rainbow.

Then again, maybe the doors will open a very short time later, and I will find that we do, indeed, get out of this one alive... for now.

Look Into My Eyes

First image is my right eye. All good. Second image is my left eye. Bit weird.

Sometimes you can't help but feeling like you're getting slammed. I should look at what was going on a year ago because it always feels like I get slammed this time of year.

Work is thin. Money is a struggle. But it's better than this time last year and maybe better than it has been for a few years before that. Money will probably always be a struggle.

Then - last thing you need - you get this weirdness in your eye. You notice it and you check it out and you go along to the specialist and in spite of how old you are, you feel young and lean because all these other people in the waiting room with eye problems, they're not young and lean. Doctor says as much. He tells you, you ARE young, you know. And you know he's wrong, but you know he's right too.

Anyway, there's something in your eye. Scans are done and it's a rainbow universe in there. We are amazing creatures who can look so deeply into our structure. I am in awe. I have pretty eyes. We all have pretty eyes.

But there is something. It distorts my vision. If I only had my left eye, I would not be able to read. The people I pass in the street, their features are mooshed together. Swirls. This annoying circle standing between me and clear vision. I just want to see properly again.

Doc seems confident that it is nothing to worry about. And fuck it - I'm going with that. I watched his body language as he told me. I listened to his tone as he asked his assistant what she made of the scans. I think he is probably right and this thing will go away. I am being Optometristic.

But I am booked in for another test which will make me yellow (why can't I be Yves Klein Blue?) and my eyes will be big, but we'll then know where Buck Rogers has to aim his lasers.

I also found out I didn't get the arts editor job I'd kind of hoped I'd get so It's easy for me to feel a bit poo right now. I did, for a bit today.

But, you know, I have nice stuff too. Good people. Good stuff. I listened again to the beginning of the chat I had with Bill Bailey. For me, that's a cool, cool thing. Clumsyfunny chat, really sweet, and in the back of my mind I was thinking, how does this happen? How is it that I was talking to Bill Bailey.

Who's Your Mama

I am appalled with myself. I've just realised that whenever I sing along to California Dreamin' by The Mamas And The Papas, I instinctively sing to Mama Cass' harmonies. This is a crushing blow to my Viking-like masculinity. What is wrong with me? AND I play the air-flute!

Black Rainbow is such a loser. (A loser with a dodgy eye).

Bonds & Bonding Pt 3

Moving right along from the last post (except to say the eye specialist is booked up until Monday so I won't have the tests done until then), my new Grumpy column is below. It's turned into a serial and it could go anywhere. I met the editors of Tsunami for the first time a few nights ago and they like the serialisation concept and are happy to go with it. For me, it's fun and I get more than the 400 words of column space I've been allocated just by doing a 'to be continued' bit at the end of each one.

Anyway, read the first one here if you feel like it, click on the image to enlarge to read the second installment, then read the new version - yet to be published - below.





Grumpy

Lee Bemrose

I look drunkenly down at my friend who is dreaming drunkenly face down into cold pizza and I think about... you know… stuff. Lots of stuff. I wobble about a bit and steady myself against the wall and I think about the importance of friendship and how the universe is this big... thing. The universe is a really big thing, perhaps as the biggest thing of all the big things. It’s awesome. Fuck – why has the biggness of the universe not struck me as so awesome before now? I force myself to stop thinking about the awesome biggness of the universe because I get that feeling again when I think too much, like my head is going to completely cave in.

I forget about the universe and think instead about friendship, which is where I think I was going with the universe thing anyway. Something to do with the impotence of friendship... or maybe the importance of friendship, and how my sleepy friend with the tiniest pair of panties I’ve ever seen traveled through time and the universe and from the other side of planet Earth to be here with me and make me laugh so much and all of the moments of her life have lead her to here and now, dreaming of things while her face is mooshed sleepily into cold pizza. It’s a beautiful thing, a friendship like that.

I know, I think, I should take a photo. Kodak moment. Shit like that.

About two seconds later I realise that right now I couldn’t work a camera any more than I could drive a space shuttle. Besides, what kind of friend would take a photo of their best mate in such undignified circumstances? I am nothing if not a loyal friend and a fuck-load of a gentleman. In fact the very thought that I thought of taking a photo appalls me so much that I take another swig of beer as punishment.

No seriously, I tell myself, I have to do what a grown up would do. I have to get my friend up onto the couch and tenderly not think about how cute she is... nononono tenderly place a blanket over her and not think about panties... for fuck sake they really are little.

Somehow I coordinate the big clumsy meat machine that is me and use a fingertip to poke Best Mate in the side of the head, hoping she will wake and do the getting onto the couch bit herself. She stirs and says something about a naughty choirboy, which makes me giggle dribblingly.

I think about dignity and chivalry and I lift my unconscious friend onto the couch. I do indeed fetch a spare blanket from the closet and I place it over her in a tender way. She snuggles into the blanket and looks adorable... once I remove the slice of Italian sausage stuck to her face and take the pizza crust from her mouth.

I turn to switch off the light but am suddenly struck with a brilliant idea. Hide the pants! Fucking excellent! I’ll hide her jeans! Oh God I crack me up.

I hide my friend’s jeans in a very secret place and switch off the light.

To be continued.

Eye Jest

So anyway, I have something a bit wrong with my left eye. It's not good. Preliminary tests today, seeing a specialist tomorrow.

The Dreaded One suggested I get my eyes tested. I asked if the test could be multiple choice.

Boom tish.

Black Rainbow

I have this friend called Ann. You blog people know her as The Dreaded One. More and more doof people are getting to know her as Pink Fairy.

I, on the other hand, am simply known as Lee. So we often are introduced as, "This is Pink Fairy and Lee."

Which is dull.

So I've gone through a tortuous process of name selection which started with Rainbow Lee. This was obviously extremely faggy and not really an option.

So for a whole weekend I just stuck with Rainbow, but that also didn't sit right.

"What about Black Rainbow?" Black Rainbow asks Pink Fairy (because Black Rainbow always speaks in the third person).

"That's ridiculous - how can you have a black rainbow?"

"You can't," Black Rainbow retorts. "Black Rainbow is a mystery. An enigma. An optical illusion."

"You're an idiot."

"Black Rainbow is a black optical illusionistical idiot."

Much silence.

Then: "What about Grumpy Rainbow? And my logo can be the smiley face with a rainbow for a mouth. "

"That's actually pretty funny," Pink Fairy tells Black Rainbow.

"Or I can be Black Rain Bro. A black bro trapped in a skinny white boy body with, like, a penchant for rain and clouds and sunshine and the resulting pretty colours it all entails."

"Black Rain Bro is starting to sound a bit gay."

"Ok. What about Rainbow Worrier?"

"I like Grumpy Rainbow."

"Hmm. I'm kind of going for Black Rainbow. Although I just considered Invisible Rainbow. And Rainbow Thunder. Wrath of Rainbow?"

What should my hippie doof name be? Black Rainbow thinks it should be Black Rainbow. What do you think?

Warren Miller's Playground feat Chris Anthony

“It used to be just a hill but now we’re flying to exotic locations and the skier and the cameraman will look at this massive peak and go wow – that is majestic and beautiful... how do we bring this to our audience?”




PLAYING AROUND

BIG AIR IS BIG BUSINESS, AND WARREN MILLER’S LATEST RELEASE IS EXTREME ENTERTAINMENT. LEE BEMROSE CAUGHT UP WITH SKIER CHRIS ANTHONY AS HE PRESENTS PLAYGROUND TO AUSTRALIAN AUDIENCES.


Talking to extreme skier Chris Anthony was a slightly odd experience. The Warren Miller brand name is clearly a very big, slick entity with a big, slick team of people. Approximately eight minutes before I’m due to call the skier and star of many Warren Miller flicks, I get a call from Kylie.

“I know you’re scheduled to call Chris in approximately eight minutes,” Kylie tells me politely, “But Chris is in fact still busy on the phone with another interview. Can we bump your time back by 15 minutes?”

Sure. No problem. I call back at the new time and speak briefly to a receptionist who puts me on hold and through to some guy who eventually puts the friendly American on, and I fleetingly wish I had some people to deal with his people. Clearly, Warren Miller Entertainment has grown since the now octogenarian Miller decided that filming his mates skiing down a mountain back in the ‘50s would be a pretty cool thing to do.

And Chris has clearly been briefed by his people because he tells me that of all the interviews, this one is going to be the most fun. He has obviously been told that Drum is a cool street mag and that we like music, so he launches straight into a spiel about the soundtrack. I’m actually more interested in the movie itself, so while Chris reaches for his piece of paper to read out who the soundtrack includes, I tell him that I’d like to come back to the soundtrack a little later and for now can he please tell me a little about the production itself. He’s a friendly, laid-back kind of guy and he obliges.

“What’s probably evolved the most is the editing,” Anthony says, more than happy to give credit to others for the success of the action movie series. “We’ve had Kim Schneider editing the films now for 26 years, and it’s impressive how he’s stayed up with the new technology and how he’s able to move from one shot to the next. It’s not just a simple dissolve now – he’s got all sorts of things going on. You know, it’s the MTV generation and we’ve got to keep them entertained. It’s really his magic and his son, who works in the music business...”

Man, they are keen to push this music line. I’m told that a lot of effort has gone into securing rights to tracks and what a lengthy, prolonged procedure getting such rights has been. Anthony mentions the soundtrack and how exciting it is, and although interested, I just don’t want to talk about it just yet. Of more interest is how the films have grown. I’m kind of cynical about how much money is involved and what a well oiled machine the brand is, but Chris puts things into perspective; there’s a hindsight inevitability about how massive the brand has become.

“Back in the old day, Warren sat down at the bottom of the hill with a camera on a tripod and shot the skier coming down the hill to him. Then a little bit later on he did that shot with maybe a couple of close up shots, then later on he actually skied along side them. Now you have cameramen hanging out of helicopters. Even the terrain is much more dramatic. It used to be just a hill but now we’re flying to exotic locations and the skier and the cameraman will look at this massive peak and go wow – that is majestic and beautiful... how do we bring this to our audience?”

The athletes might be the stars, but it’s a collaborative process with the photographers dictating how the shots will pan out, and yes, often the runs have to be done over and over. Like other forms of film-making, half a day’s work might end up being 15 seconds of screen time.

“And unfortunately, 90% of what we might shoot ends up on the editing room floor.”

It’s a long and painstaking process, and while Miller himself might have distanced himself from the annually-released films, they have remained popular with punters all around the world. Much of the appeal, says Chris Anthony, is the exotic locations, this time round taking in Canada, Alaska, Sweden, Japan and even a ski resort in Dubai.

“To be watching skiers constantly jump off cliffs is pretty awesome, but a lot of the time people come out of the theatres and they’re more intrigued by the weird, exotic locations. That’s why the formula is so successful – it’s a travel piece, documentary and high action.”

Other famous skiers featured in Playground include Bode Miller, Jon Olsen, Sean Petit, Dan Treadway with narration by Olympic gold medallist Jonny Mosely.

And yes, there is that soundtrack. There’s genuine passion when the quietly spoken Chris Anthony speaks about how much planning goes into each shot and the resulting exhilaration of taking on a run that’s perhaps too ambitious (he speaks of ‘camera courage’ which perhaps contributed to the death last year of 28 year old extreme skier Billy Poole), but when it comes to the much touted soundtrack...

“We’ve definitely had better and better music each year. Getting those clearance rights is very difficult. But we’ve done very well this year... there’s one band that’s very big down here called Rev... no wait... it’s in the film and...”

“And it’s name is...?” I prompt.

Chris laughs here and tells me to hang on. “I’m working on it. I didn’t even know he was from Australia. Where is it... erm...John...”

“John,” I smart arse. “Oh good. Glad John’s in there. Wouldn’t be the same without John.”

“John Butler Trio.”

Ah. Serious coolness. There’s also Korn and Linkin Park and a whole bunch of other high energy stuff.

We conclude a very chilled conversation with the skier assuring me that although Playground is a ski film, it’s not necessarily a film exclusively for skiers.

“The film makes us aware of places we might not have been aware of. It throws in a bit of travel and education and culture. It’s just a full-on entertainment piece.”

Story as it appeared in a recent issue of Drum - minus the last three paras. Can you believe that? I try not to get precious about subbing anymore, but that seemed like a harsh cut.

PS - Do click on the link to the Billy Poole site and read through the memories of Billy page. I just watched the video and yeah, he was a down to earth kind of guy more interested in living life than making money. And I was really moved by all the good things people have said about him. Awesome stuff.

Boy And Girl

Boy says, I think it's time I set you free.

Girls says, Why?

Boy says, Your future is still bright.

Girl says, But we've always been us.

Boy says, And we could keep on being us, but without me your future is still bright.

Girl says, But...

Boy says nothing. Girl says nothing. But they know the truth.

Girl says, What will you do?

Boy says, I will smile because I know you are free.

Girl says, But what will you do?

Boy says, I will find my peace in finally not being.

Girl sheds a tear.

Boy sheds one of his own and kisses hers away.

But.

Girl goes to her bright future.

And boy hopes she remembers him sometimes, and he hopes she smiles.

I Once Met A Happy Latvian

Feeling Grumpy... I mean grumpy. Nothing to write. And NOT because that bastard bus driver drove off just as I caught up and was in clear view of his rear vision mirror. Certainly not because he was fully two minutes early either. And I'm definitely not grumpy because he didn't exactly gun it, just kind of moved off at what I'd call A Very Fast Running Pace. Bastard.

And I'm not all glum and moody because Mr Bus Driver of the 301 from Circular Quay slowed down to a stop just a few metres on, causing me to walk quickly, then break into another run when I realised I might just have a chance of catching the damn thing, only to realise he had stopped for the traffic light, not poor, miserable, sweaty morose me.

And when I'd almost caught up to the door and the light changed and he gunned the beast into warp speed, I thought that was pretty funny.

And when I saw the next bus was not for half an hour? Oh ho ho.

I wandered over to the station and saw that the next train to Central was due out in two minutes. Perfect. Just enough time to poke the automatic ticket machine and I'd be home before the next 301 was even due.

Of course the train was early. Of course I could hear it pulling in already. Weirdly, though, it sounded like it was on the wrong platform. Still, both platforms go to Central so I took the flights of stairs like my version of a really fit person. Lots of steps. So many steps. And what should I find at the top of all those steps? That I had been hearing things because my train was waiting for me on the other platform... aaaaaha ha ha ha ha.

Down all the steps, across the middle bit (which there is probably a word for, like central concourse or something but I was in far too much of a hurry so it was just a very inconvenient middle bit) and up more fucking stairs.

You know what's coming, don't you. You just know that I'm going to stumble panting onto the platform just as the doors hiss closed and the train pulls out.

Well hah. You are wrong. I made it onto the train with seconds to spare. The right train and everything.

So in the end, my Indiana-like battle with public transport is not what has made me so grumpy. Don't feel like talking about it yet in case I am jumping the gun, but I will say I am well over getting excited about shit. Thought I'd give this optimism thing a go and I've been trying it for quite a while now, but fuck it. Over it.

And after that little digression or whatever it was, here's one of my stories out in the current issue of Drum. I'm not sure why it amused me to call the guy a happy Latvian but it did.

Of course that was last week when there were still things in the world that amused me... *sigh*

The Fondue Set - No Success Like Failure

On a whim I went along to see The Fondue Set - No Success Like Failure. For me, this was a wonderful hour of entertainment. Silly is such precious stuff. Adorable and intelligent silly... priceless. These women are quite brilliant. My heart will (possibly) always be with Meow Meow, but right now I'm hearting The Fondue Set a lot.

More details tomorrow. If you are in Sydney though and you like quality kooky, go see. You will like.

PS - I was going to write a review but here is one someone prepared earlier. It pretty well nails it and saves me the trouble of poking the keyboard any more than I have to. This really was a fun show.

An Interview Out-take

I just wrote part of the interview I did with Latvian theatre director Vladislavs Nastashevs who is in Australia to direct Miss Julie for Belvoir Downstairs.

Written by August Strindberg in 1888, the play is about love, lust, class, dominance and freedom. It's a one hour play with three characters - Miss Julie, Jean and his finace Kristin. The three characters also talk a lot about Miss Julie's father The Count, who is also Jean's boss.

The Count is an interesting figure because there is evidence of his existence and there is much talk of him, but he never makes an appearance. In a sense he's the most powerful character in the play (or the one with the most power) but we never see him. He's almost like God, more powerful than all of them but to us he's an unseen force.

As a writing device, I found this a pretty cool one... but I'm me and I couldn't resist asking about the casting process, in particular was it difficult to cast the part of The Count. I thought this was really funny and I totally didn't expect the answer I got. I thought maybe the director would think I was an idiot who hadn't done my homework. I didn't expect this:

Lee: "Was casting The Count very difficult?"

Vlad: "Casting the...?"

Lee: "The Count. Was it difficult to find someone to play The Count?"

Pause.

Lee: "To find an actor to play... I'm joking. Because The Count doesn't ever appear in the play, which was an interesting device for Strindberg to use, wasn't it."

Vlad: "Ah. Ahh right. Right, here we go. Well casting The Count was difficult while I was thinking about the play because I had to somehow kind of bring him in even though he never appears. So I made sure to be able to have him there even though he's not, which was quite a challenge. But I believe I've achieved it. It's much more powerful for the rest of the characters because it deals with masters and servants... it's very much about the servants and they do talk about him a lot, about how they feel about him and what they think about him and I think that's more interesting than actually showing that. Bringing in The Count would somehow mean doubling it all. Something interesting I have done with the set is to have a wooden bar, a wooden beam which is suspended from the middle so that it naturally balances with all the props sitting on top of it. So basically the props, the kitchen utensils kind of balance it. So the actors always have to watch it so they don't make it fall, and to me that represents more than the nature of kitchens... but it represents something which has power over all of them. It's almost like the 4th character in the play. The set is actually the 4th character... which is very much The Count. If you can see where I'm coming from."

Lee: "So you've turned The Count into The Kitchen Counter?"

Okay, so I didn't say that last bit, and I do think I know what he means. He had to have some evidence of The Count's existence and... or something like that.

The play does actually sound good and I am going to get a long to see it. ("Look out! The Count's behind the counter!")

Enough Rope With Miriam Margolyes

Just watched this interview with Miriam Margolyes and Andrew Denton. What an absolutely wonderful person MM is. My God I laughed. Denton is a very good interviewer. Margolyes is absolutely your dream interviewee, isn't she?

Except that Andrew Denton has probably done the definitive interview with her. If you were given the opportunity, you just wouldn't bother. This was class.

Freudian Slip At FIFA 2008

Big catering function. Lots of agency chefs, some good, some wankers. It's just the way it is. The good ones, they are just obvious because they Do The Fucking Job. Others are just idiots. But the idiots try, don't they? They scream and yell and forget that we are all here to get the job done. They go into meltdown when the pressure is on though. Pretty damned funny.

The heat is on. This is a world class event with... oh all right - it's those wankers from FIFA. My God, what a bunch of tossers. It's soccer, for fuck sake... you are just a committee deciding the rules of a game played by a bunch of blokes chasing a ball around a big green oblong... you are not Norse Gods. Such wankers.

But this chef, this chef.

I'm sweating because it's intense, this dessert, and we must get it out there and we're behind and oh fuck me it's all so tight and of all of The Big Events, this may be the Big Daddy of them all.

And this chef who is trying to stamp authority over everything, he walks over to me as I'm dressing the desserts that are about to go out and all red-faced and sinking in deep over his head, he stamps his authority by asking, "Have all these desserts been cross-dressed?"

I pause and don't even bother to laugh because this is too funny. I just think to myself, what the fuck are you into?

Do I look good in this silky Freudian slip?

Bonds & Bonding Pt 2

Wasn't in the mood for writing silly but my Grumpy column in Tsunami is due tomorrow, so here is this. If you haven't read the first installment, read it here first, otherwise it might not make a whole lot of sense... which it might not do anyway.

Grumpy

Lee Bemrose

While my friend snores into her pizza, I sneak a look at my undies to see whether they are cool enough to join my drunk pantie-clad mate in a bit of... a bit of what, exactly? Surely even as drunk as I am – which is profoundly – surely I can accept that it would not be cool to be found by my girlfriend eating pizza in my undies with my female best mate wearing what have to be the littlest tiny undies known to mankind... I mean look at them, I giggle drunkenly as I point, teeny weeny little tiny teeny weeny… whoa, I think, way drunk. Head-spinningly drunk. Fucked. Should do something.

What I do is, I have another drink, like this is going to give my brain a head-start on how to deal with this crisis of pizza and panties and the most beer in the world, which shall be henceforth referred to forthwith by my brain as ‘The Great Pizza and Panties Crisis of... erm... The Year It Took Place In And We Drank All The Beer In The World’. But all my head can come up with - besides a pretty obviously cumbersome and completely shitty name for my current predicament is another bout of inane giggling. And pointing. It also throws in a bit of dribbling for good measure

Okay, I tell myself in a grown up tone, get serious about this. There’s two options... actually there’s heaps of options... the more I sit there looking at all the options, the more options unfold before my wide and bedazzled eyes... just millions and millions of options unfolding like... like optionfractals! My God! I think I’ve just discovered a whole new concept no fucker has ever thought of before. Optionfractals. Brilliant. Gotta write this down. They’re going to think I’m the next Einstein or that other brainy guy with the apple. Oh God this is sooo cool. This is even better than when I came up with the idea of Brainhands... little tiny hands that your brain uses for grabbing thoughts that...

Minutes or hours pass and I decide I should be not here because the no pants thing is going to require a lot of explaining if my girlfriend walks out. By a miracle of millions of years of evolution I lurch my way to some kind of standing position... it’s exactly like standing, but wobbly.

And looking wobblingly down at my mate as she dreams into her pizza, I decide that something must be done.

To be continued.

Juggling To 1200 Mics

In keeping with my taste in all things good as far as creativity goes, check this guy out. I was looking for some clips featuring the flute magic of Raja Ram from 1200 Mics and Shpongle and came across this clip, and what a little smart arse. You see this kind of thing at doofs sometimes... it's just not often this flawless. Love that he's smiling as he does it too. Fun stuff.

Freelance Writer - Specialises In Everything

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.

A Chat With Bill Bailey: Behind The Scenes

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.

But it will be fine. It'll be fine.

A Chat With Bill Bailey

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.

We're seeing if we can re-schedule now.

Review: Colder

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.

Go see Colder. Like me, you’ll be glad you did.

At SBW Stables Theatre Darlinghurst until 24 May.

LEE BEMROSE

Ignorance in The Theatre

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.

Woodstock

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.

Book Club

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?

Silly brain.

My Name Is Rachel Corrie

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.

123 Meme

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.

Lawrence Leung Learns To Breakdance Review

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.

*I being racist.

Season over.

LEE BEMROSE

Bonds & Bonding

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.

To be continued.

Love, Death & The Rhythm Of Language, Baby: A Eugoogooly

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.

The Tennis Court Of King Arthur

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?

* To be continued.

Scratch Improv For Cracker

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.

Thoughts From A Cold, Walnut Sized Brain

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.

Humans can be so dreary.

Brilliant Monkey Review And A Bit Of Head Scratching

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...

Sub-standard

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.

Men, Love and the Monkeyboy Review

Click on the image to make big and read my impression of Men, Love and the Monkeyboy.

I liked this play. I just thought it needed to be tweaked a little. If you live in Sydney and you disagree, let me know.

Cool People

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 Love The Smell Of Jackets

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...

Oh yes, how lucky I am.

White Moth

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.

Then I read up on what white moths represent.

Oh dear.

Looong Looong Weekends Covered In Beautiful Feathers

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.

Regen Vs Degen

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?

Señor Aubergine

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..."

Chloe Takes On Kamikaze Man

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!"

Tunnels, Light, Laughter And Good Things.

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.

Reviews: The Wet Spots and This Is How It Goes

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.

Bananas

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.

I'm On The Cover Of Australian Penthouse

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.