Earthdance 2008

Earthdance happens this weekend. I am not going to the Sydney party because I'm working. If it was being held on the correct day, however, I would be able to go. But the Sydney organisors in their wisdom have moved the party a day forward.

This doco is worth watching if you want to know what Earthdance is really about. In the opening minutes several people mention that at the heart of the thing is the simultaneous pause for a prayer for peace. The point is that at hundreds of locations around the world, hundreds of thousands of party-goers stop playing and pray for peace while the same track is played.

It's a bit of hippie silliness, perhaps, but it's kind of cool too. Certainly doesn't hurt anything. Sydney has always had a bit of a problem with the prayer bit because GMT midnight is about 9am here. You turn up, you see a handful of bleary eye punters who've just had breakfast.

Still, to this year move the party to an entirely different day... missing the point completely.

Last couple of years the party has been a bit of a mess. The promoters talk only of making the party bigger and bigger each year. Punters treat it like Field Day or any number of other dance festivals, and that's more or less okay. Get wrecked by all means, but drop some change in the bucket and I guess it does some good... after costs have been deducted for putting the party on.

I'd like to be at Waveform. It looks good and it's at least keeping the spirit of the thing alive. Sydney is just missing the point.

pool (no water) Review

Review more or less as it will appear In Drum tomorrow. I think there were moments in the play when it got so dark, when the nastiest and pettiest of emotions were portrayed, that I thought something like, "Phwoar!"

A shallower bunch you've never met... unless you've hung out in an arty scene for a bit, in which case you've probably met them all. And yet, for all their shallowness there was some good in them all. Kind of. Imperfect humans, you are.

If you're in Sydney, definitely check this one out. It was a pretty good Sunday matinee audience yesterday, which probably says more than my little 300 (ish) word review. 300 words to review a play? What is that? Why not go all the way and ask for reviews in haiku form?


pool (no water)

If you like your comedy dark, scathing and brutally funny, you’ll probably like Square The Circle’s production of pool (no water).

The story follows an artistic group (The Group) and the bonds that keep them together. One’s career has taken off where the others’ flounder, and spiteful jealousy and bitterness is revealed. When the highly successful former member of The Group comes a cropper, the others make the opportunistic decision to photograph her unconscious and broken body though her prolonged healing process. They are artists, and as such feel justified in adjusting broken and bruised limbs to better capture the most flattering light, if that is what is required for a more artistic shot. The friend eventually awakens and realises what they have been doing, and is, to the surprise and disappointment of them all, grateful. She sees the power of the images and the potential for a great exhibition, once again taking centre stage. The Group feels that their creation is being taken away, and their facades unravel. In a haze of drugs, action is taken.

British playwright Mark Ravenhill appears to have a very cynical view of those in contemporary art scene. Here they are portrayed as a venomous, opportunistic bunch who inwardly drool at the prospect of success even though they claim it is irrelevant to their work. And scratch the surface of their bravado and what do you find? The same - often pathetic - insecurities that plague us all. So by and large, I reckon Mr Ravenhill nails it.

Not sure the ‘cunt’ diatribe nailed it so well here. Seemed too PC and would have felt stronger and more confronting if delivered by one of the male characters.

Still, this is a compact play with loads to say about the nature of ambition and friendship. All aspects of staging are pared back – minimal lighting, fluro and sterile like hospital lighting, effective but minimal sound design – so that this production is really about four solid performers (Angela Bauer, Guy Edmonds, Lisa Griffiths, and Sam Haft) delivering a gritty and sometimes disturbingly funny script.

Until 20 September at Darlinghurst Theatre
Photo by Alex Craig

LEE BEMROSE

The Jokey Doctor

Been a bit unwell lately but in keeping with my sub-header about sometimes having to squint a little to see the funny stuff, here's this...

The doctor pokes about, takes my blood pressure and heart rate and deems them both in good shape. She pokes about a bit more and a bit more forcefully and seems surprised there is no abdominal pain. I put my shirt back on and she leads me through to the room where I am to give some blood for a blood test. I take a seat and the blood-taking guy comes in while the other doc goes about her business, just in the background.

I sink in my chair because I have encountered this guy once before, long ago. He is The Jokey Doc, the kind of guy who believes that humour is the key to making us all feel relaxed and able to cope with what must be a strange and foreign world to us civilians. As such, one wall is festooned with jokey cartoons related to medical health, jokey greeting cards and jokey famous quotes.

"Feeling unwell, are we?" The Jokey Doc asks, feigning concern and unhappiness.

"Not at all," I don't reply. "Every now and then I just feel like coming along to places like this to piss into tiny little jars and let fuckwits like you shove needles into my arms."

From the background, the other doctor calls out to tell me that I am very dry. I would like to think she is talking about my sense of humour, but no, she has matched a colour chart to my urine sample. "Very dry," she chastises.

"Sorry," I tell her. "I thought I was drinking enough water. I'll try to drink more."

"Hmm," The Jokey Doctor tells me. "We lose a lot more water as well as minerals and salts than we think. As well as water there's also Powerade, Lucozade, Gatorade... In fact," (A comical, circular wave of the hands to indicate abundance), "We want you to get lots of 'ades'!"

Pause for comic affect. Thumb and forefinger to the chin as he contemplates his little double entendre.

"Which I suppose," he goes exhaustingly on, "is not really the kind of thing you want to hear in a medical centre."

Boom. Fucking. Tish. Clearly he has done that one a thousand times and is more pleased with how much he has refined it each time and how wonderfully fresh he makes it sound each time.

Fucker busies himself with tubes and needles for about two seconds before stopping and gazing whimsically at a distant memory. "You know - speaking of specimen jars reminds me of the time that I - as a pink-faced intern - handed my first specimen jar to one of many returned war vets. Of course, they didn't make specimen jars the same back then. They were much smaller. Unlike the returned vets... big burly men, they were..."

Fucking hell, Uncle Monty - just give me the fucking syringe and I'll do it myself.

His anecdote basically amounted to the war vet being bemused by the diminutive size of the jar in comparison to the gigantic size of his shits and did the intern have any idea of how big the war vets shits were and everyone was watching and there were a lot of war vets who did big poos that he had to hand out specimen jars to and it was going to be a long day.

"Listen, fucker," I almost say at the end of this delightful story. "If you don't put that needle in my arm very shortly I will put it right into your eye with astonishing frequency."

When he finally gets started, jokey Doc tells me that his rollicking number twos specimen jar story came to mind because he saw that the other doctor was giving me a number twos specimen jar, which confuses me because I hadn't thought she was.

Still, at reception sorting out the paperwork, I decide to ask because maybe she was giving me a take-home one to do the... erm... procedure in the comfort of my own home, which was thoughtful.

"So," I say into the eerie silence of the packed waiting room. "Is that it then?"

"Yes. All done."

"Ah," I reply trying to whisper but trying to not sound like I'm whispering. Either way, in this silence it sounds like I'm shouting. "Because the doctor said something about a (specimen jar)."

"Really? To take home? Didn't say anything to me about a specimen jar. Still, if you want a specimen jar I can give you a specim-"

"Can we please stop saying specimen jar so much please. And look no. I don't want one, it's just that The Jokey Doctor - "

"It's no trouble, really."

As the receptionist turns to go and find a take-home specimen jar, I make my quick exit and flee to the comfort and safety of my couch and doona.

Early Morning Love Song

I Don’t Want to Fuck You, I Just Want To Hold You

Near sleep and I have everything I want,
Your breath against my chest,
The heat of your skin against mine,
The beat of our hearts entwined.

Narcotic dreams
As I feel the soft weight of your breast in my palm,
Breathe the scent of your skin,
Breathe your essence in.

Lay against me,
Trust me,
Love me, Want me. Dream about me
The way I dream about you.

I want this to last forever,
Curve of your hips,
The sweep of your back,
Light lick of parted lips.

Intoxicated smile as you push against me,
Lost to me.
Fingers tighten,
Dream-smile breaking through.

I don’t want dreams,
I don’t want memories,
I don’t want the real world,
I just want this to last forever.

And right now, maybe just for now,
I don’t want to fuck you,
I just want to hold you,
Just want to hold you.

This Is Love

One song leads to another. I've stepped outside of psytrance for a bit and am into jangly, psychedelic sounds and bad love stories. I want growly guitar and stories about love and addiction.

PJ is babe.

Stagger Lee Goes To The Shop

I'm tweaking my murder love story Leaving Ruben Jane, getting it ready for an upcoming competition. I've been distracted and kind of dark and brooding and murdery. Last song I heard before going to sleep last night was the previous post's Stagger Lee.

So the sun was shining in this morning when The Dreaded One made the coffee and told me that that was the last of the milk and we'd have to go to the shop to buy some more.

"Stagger Lee wouldn't go to the shop to buy milk," I replied, barely awake and not really considering that she'd never heard Stagger Lee. "He'd go to the shop, murder the shopkeeper and take the milk."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah. Stagger Lee would take, like, all the milk. Because he's a crazy motherfucker."

Stagger Lee

Feeling a bit mad. Feeling like a bit mad is okay when I see people making music like this. I like this one a lot.

Me & The Boys

The girl has been away and I've been holed up boozin' and writin' Finished my short story called Leaving Ruben Jane. I think it's okay. Love and death and stuff. I think it's okay. I think.

It's just been me and the boys for the last few days. Nick, whose Ship Song is kind of what I'm aiming for in short story form... fucking hell he does love well; Tex, glowering bastard he is; and Tom. This clip is insane and brilliant. I hope he comes to Australia again. Just one more time please?

So just in case any of you were thinking that I'm nice and sensitive etc, get a hit of vintage Tom Waits. I love this track.

Right now I've got to go outside and smell a flower or look at a duck or something.

The Niggly Thing

As I left home for work this morning, I had that feeling, like something is not quite right. You get that feeling, you check for your keys. The Dreaded One is away for a few days so locking my keys inside is a fear that keeps me a wake at night... or it would if I didn't stay up all night anyway.

I check for my keys. They are there. I close the door and head off, still feeling that something is not quite right. I'm a good block away from home when I realise that I have left my phone behind. This is not good. This will totally bother me the whole day. I hesitate. If I go back and get my phone I will be late. I will feel more at ease having my phone with me but I will be late. I pause for just long enough to absently watch the 301 pull in, pick up my should-be fellow passengers, sit for a bit, then pull away.

Bugger. I commence walking to the station, deciding that I will somehow make it through the day completely phoneless.

As I approach The Big Pointy Building, something niggles. Niggly niggly niggly thing. Something is just not quite as it it should be. I would check that I am not wearing odd shoes and that my fly is zipped up but I have already done this several times and really need to get over these petty insecurities.

I get to Stage Door, the entrance to The Opera House and the kitchen where I faux chef. I look for my security pass and realise that I have left it behind.

Ah-ha, I think, that is The Niggly Thing.

But it is not The Niggly Thing.

I tell the security guy that I have left my pass at home. He asks for my surname. I tell him and commence spelling it immediately because every human known to humankind has trouble getting my last name right. On this occasion, my help only confuses the guy. I mean, he gets it, takes it in, has got all the letters right and in the right order, but he has the need to spell it back to me to confirm that we are in agreement regarding the spelling of my last name. What he comes back with is the most peculiar version of the phonetic alphabet I have ever encountered.

"So let me get this right... that's B for B-Grade movie?"

"... Yairs..."

Biting his tongue gently with his side teeth, the guy hunts and pecks.

"E for emery board?"

"Yes."

"M for... I dunno... Mary had a little lamb?"

"M for Mary had a little lamb. Yes. Very good."

"R forrrr... rose."

"Yes and actually that is the rest of the name. Rose."

"What?"

"You don't have to say O for origami maker, S for saxophone player etc. Just type in Rose. Bem - which you've already typed in - and Rose. It's actually not all that difficult."

Just then one of the other chefs walks in. He looks at me a little strangely, like why am I loitering at Stage Door?

"Left my pass at home," I tell him with a would-you-believe-it roll of the eyes while M for Moron says something about me not being on the system.

"But why are you here now?" other chef asks. "You're not rostered on until midday."

And there we have it - The Niggly Thing!

I tell the security guy to stop looking for me in the system because as impossible as it seems, he has clearly spelled my name incorrectly.

I head back home to collect my phone and my security card and to push the reset button for the day.

Saturn's Return, An Interview With Tommy Murphy

Sometimes the most fun in writing articles is coming up with the headline. Sometimes it can be a total pain in the arse... like when you are sure they are going to be easy and after the first and most obvious options are thrown away you almost go nuts trying to come up with something that's catchy and actually relevant and not just an idiotic pun. But it can be fun.

This play sounds pretty good. I'm betting it's going to be a winner.

(lost toy story), a Q & A with TJ Eckleberg

Here is a Q & A I did with TJ Eckleberg, the creative director of Shopfront Theatre for Young People. They are putting on a free, three day arts festival celebrating lost toys. There is something I find about the concept really appealing. Thought I'd post the Q & A here because I had to shorten it and write it as a story for Drum. I'm actually quite into Q & A's. More words from the horse's mouth and less from the writer.

I spoke to you last when you were preparing A City Of Shadows and Ice. How did that event pan out for you?
Hey Lee – Yeah I remember. Lovely to hear from you again. ‘…shadows and ice’ was hot, hot, hot and cold cold. Of course.
It was gorgeous – the fire and the sheets of ice and projections and so on… but standing watching the performers struggle each day with ice in the town square was pretty cold. I ought to know better. I’ve always thought you need to be careful what you call a project – or it comes back to haunt you. Consequently I named a project (lost toy story) and spent yesterday losing my pen in my pocket, my car, a café…

(lost toy story) is quite a wonderful concept for an arts festival. Where did it come from?
Firstly I was inspired by a beautiful public nativity installation in Brussels, Belgium in 2001– gorgeous, glowing, life-sized cows and glowing sheep curated in the old town square. And a book I gave a friend of mine that was essentially a collection of lost pet posters.

Put that with numerous conversations about hybrid arts, Transformers, electronics, pink bears and the desire of emerging artists to direct a piece of their own in a highly public setting… and it all just seems so obvious…

Why the parentheses and lower case in the title?
I guess it reminds us this is about the little things and the lost things. The things in parentheses and lower case – that are overlooked or unimportant or no longer particularly noteworthy. Toys are kinda like that. They seem so urgent and eternal, but they fade. It’s good to be reminded the little things play a big part in our lives.

Toys have been an important part of the lives of even the oldest adults. Is the intention for this to be appealing to a broad range of ages?
Everyone knows what it is to lose a toy. And toys are people too. I think this is why the project has struck such a chord. We put posters drawn by young people about lost toys, in urban centres and cafes, and the response has been staggering – humorous, weird, enlightening… and sometimes a little too weird. People have called, emailed, even created their own posters in response. But I think it touches on the idea of loss without being too cerebral or uptight or conceptual. It’s good to have to ask yourself what became of something you set aside. And pretty much everyone you ask is eager to share a story about some precious toy that broke their heart.

Given that the festival celebrates toys that have been lost to the past, do you think preparation has affected the young performers and artists involved view the toys they have now?
I definitely think the telling of the stories has changed them. Yeah.

Toys represent fun, and in a sense having a festival commemorating toys that are lost could be seen as a little like telling a kid that it’s okay to have a new puppy but they must also understand that it is going to die one day. Aren’t you raining on a few parades?
Not at all. Teddy’s back man. AND he wants a hug! Ha. That’s the great thing. Even the things you think are gone, in so many ways, aren’t really. We remember the stories and we can pass them on, and find hope and connection in and through them. And turn them into posters and glowing sculptures and performance. We can use loss as an excuse to talk to one another, to remember and to get out on the streets.

I really like the idea of the memorial pond to lost toys. What can you tell us about it and what do you expect it to be like?
Not just lost toys – but lost things. It’s a little ritual in the middle of this crazy performance where you can take time out to write down something or someone you want to remember on a little sail, attach that sail to a little sailboat, light a candle in the boat and float the boat out into the water. There’s no real gimmick – it’s just a twist on a very traditional way of celebrating and remembering something or someone who is gone.

What particular toys will you be remembering during (lost toy story)?
I had a teddy when we went to America that got lost in transit. Five years later it got returned when we came back to Australia. I got the teddy back but something had changed. Seeing him now reminds me of a journey where I lost friends and a whole country. Other than that, I really miss playing games. Don’t you? It’s a real shame we’re not supposed to play Hide and Seek once we grow up. Or Red Rover Cross Over. Or What’s The Time Mr Wolf? They were fun.

Other highlights for you?
The young people. Always. They amaze me with their stories and courage and willingness to look and play and explore. Some of the songs have been gorgeous and jaw dropping (did I mention there have been twenty one tracks produced in an album accompanying the festival?). The young directors too – they constantly come up with ways of doing or creating that surprises me and makes me smile.

I’m a sucker for poetry. Can you give us any of the poetry that is part of (lost toy story)?
I want to go home
I don’t like being held upside down
Covered in food or ice cream for that matter
I don’t like my seams being torn
or my eyes hanging loose
But after they’re gone they make me sad
I’m missing the life I had
I want to go home.

Drum readers will be interested to see that Meem is involved. How did that come about and what can you tell us of his participation?
Meem has been totally integral – he’s been a friend for a while – through A mutal friend and longtime Shopfront collaborator Deepchild. I’ve had him in mind for a project and he was perfect for this – he worked so quickly and with so much empathy – the perfect sound artist – he was really able to get inside the heads of the young people and the directors. The soundtrack is stunning. But not only him. Byron Williams and Ozi Batla from The Herd, Vic McEwan from Box Freezer Romance, David Kirkpatrick and Phreaze all kicked in with production and song development. And on the odd occasion when I could drag myself out of interviews, I even managed to strum a guitar or press record myself. ;-)

Okay. I’m a modern and fast-paced dude whose toys are very electronic, very blinky and play music LOUD... and they are not lost. Why should I come to (lost toy story)?
Oh come on! When was the last time you saw a six metre glow in the dark hot pink teddy bear? Or real life Transformers roaming the streets? Or five pink bears who keep getting tangled in ribbon? Why stay at home and watch reruns of CSI when you can follow the important real life forensics of the MTU: Missing toy unit?

It’s time to remember. You can’t keep ignoring teddy forever.

WHAT: (lost toy story), a three day free festival arts festival.
WHEN & WHERE: 22 – 24 August, Hurstville CBD.

Lee Bemrose

Bonds & Bonding Pt 4

Here is my latest Grumpy column in Tsunami mag. It's a bit of an ongoing saga so if you're not up to speed about the misadventures of me and the tiniest panties in the world, read this, then this, then this. People other than me seem to find it all a bit funny. And there is more to come because I keep ending with To be continued... which means pretty soon I'm going to have to start making shit up.

So Pretty

Demet is someone I know. Recently I told her that she is pretty. I didn't know she danced like this. I think I have to upgrade my description.

An Interview With David Sedaris

Someone recently told me that they thought my Grumpy columns were like less gay versions of David Sedaris' writing. I took this as a compliment even though at the time I'd never heard of David Sedaris. Gap in knowledge revealed, I read up. Interesting.

Recently I received a press release about David Sedaris doing a reading at (you guessed it) The Big Pointy Building.

Wanting to add to my diminutive list of international A-listers who I've interviewed such as this one and this one, as well as pretty interesting local ones like this one and this one, I thought it would be pretty cool to try to get an interview with Mr Sedaris, since he is visiting Australia.

No such luck. Apparently, according to His People, David Sedaris is not doing interviews.

David Sedaris has done interviews. I have read interviews with David Sedaris and I have heard interviews with David Sedaris and just recently David Sedaris was on The David Letterman Show... and he wasn't giving Letterman a foot massage.

The only natural conclusion? David Sedaris is scared. He lies in his bed trembling for hellishly long nights, fear sweating through his pale and pathetic skin at the prospect of being interviewed by Mee. His People should have completed their refusal by saying "David Sedaris doesn't do interviews with Lee ... because he is intimidated by Lee's towering intellect and his supranatural wit and, you know, just his general braininess and all round magnificence and feels that meeting Lee in person would cause him to do something a bit embarrassing like wee in his pants with the excitement of it all."

"Nappies."

"What?" David Sedaris' People ask, sounding a little perplexed.

"He could wear nappies. Then no one would notice that he has weed his pants."

"... Umm... no..."

"C'mon. Those slim line Huggies? No one will suspect a thing."

"No. No, we really are not going to ask David Sedaris to wear Huggies in case he wees in his pants with the excitement of meeting you, Lee. Furthermore we really don't like the slightly surreal turn this imaginary conversation has taken and would really like to terminate it now."

"Go on then."

"Well we can't, can we. It's your imaginary conversation so you have to terminate it."

"Ah ha!. So if - by your own admission - it's my imaginary conversation I could, if I wanted to, just go directly to David Sedaris and have my interview with him."

"Well... yesss. We suppose that is possible."

"Right then. Tell Sedaris to put his Huggies on and get on the line."

"One moment please..."

Our Country's Good, Review

Saw this play last night. Review will be out in Drum Media on Tuesday. Meantime, here's what I thought in 350 words...


OUR COUNTRY’S GOOD

It’s a cheesy way to begin a review but it has to be done: this play’s good.

Based on Thomas Keneally’s novel The Playmaker (which was in turn based on actual events), Timberlake Wertenbaker’s play is set in the rough and grimy times of Britain’s colonisation of Australia. It looks at a bunch of convicts transported for petty crime who have largely given up hope of a better future. They dream of life back home but are resigned to living their bleak lives one day at a time in a foreign land and at the mercy of often hostile officers.

With ferocious lashings and hangings becoming commonplace, crimes of survival in these famine conditions are still on the rise so an alternative to punishment is sought; the convicts will put on a play.

Although the plan is met with resistance from many, the positive benefits gradually manifest themselves and it becomes apparent that this play – written in the late 1980s and set 200 years earlier – resonates strongly now. It’s an engaging and entertaining examination of ideas of the effectiveness of punishment and the importance of compassion, dignity and self-respect.

Set, lighting and sound design were excellent; immediately upon entering the theatre we’re transported in time and place to the creaking, misery soaked bowels of a First Fleet ship. An impressive start, the following couple of hours, for this particular bum on a seat, flew by. The large cast (all steadfastly in character even when on the periphery of a scene) is kept busy often with multiple roles and I was just in there, in the story, sometimes charmed, sometimes moved, sometimes amused, always engrossed.

It’s an amazing thing that these lives and events have been recreated from old journal entries and passed through time from one storyteller to another. Our Country’s Good is going to stay with me for quite a while.

At Darlinghurst Theatre until 23 August.

LEE BEMROSE

Anger Man

Heated early morning conversation. Verbatim. Much anger in the air. I hate starting off the day like this, but unfortunately day to day life just has its sour moments.

A while ago a good friend did shitty stuff and we parted ways. Once we used to give each other matey hugs in greeting but on the last time I saw him, he went for a handshake and I snubbed him. Didn't even say goodbye. Mostly, I'm not a hater, but when bad stuff happens and I think someone is not worthy of my friendship, it stays that way. Once we go down that path, there simply is no turning back.

So we get an email from this former friend and it's all chatty, starts off with 'Hi, how are you guys?"

I'm not a violent person, but the email makes me want to punch the computer monitor right in its face. I refrain and instead rant. Can you believe the fucker etc.

I shower and when I come out to make sure the fucker really does have the gall, I see a reply not yet sent from my beloved Dreaded One. She has opened with, "Hi X, we're good, how are you?"

I cannot believe it. I rant again. You send that email I will totally disown you I swear etc.

"Stop being silly," comes the reply from the kitchen. "Can you send that for me please? I forgot to hit send."

I really really cannot believe this. "I absolutely will not pollute my fingertips by sending that message. The fucker's a fucker and will always be a fucker."

"Oh stop it. What's the point in bearing a grudge? It's juvenile."

"Seriously - I am disgusted that you think it's okay to send that message. You are wet. You are a sap. You need to feel more hate. Sometimes it's justified."

"There's no point. Life's too short..."

I don't hear what comes next because I have left the room in seething disgust. When I calm down enough to return to the same room as the traitor, I hear the sound of email being sent and when I check, she really has actually sent this email of betrayal.

I am speechless.

When I am finally capable of speech, I come up with this: "What you're not understanding here is that every superhero needs an arch nemesis, and X is my arch nemesis."

"Well you're not much of a superhero if your arch nemesis is X."

"At least I have an arch nemesis," I counter with justified superiority.

"That's fine. I don't need to pretend I'm a superhero. C'mon - get your chef jacket. We're running late."

"Okay."

Heard On The Dancefloor

Sunday evening, I'm unexpectedly going a bit silly on the dancefloor. Been a shitty few days working at a pretty crappy job, so when we bump into someone who asks if we're going to the party, late lunch plans suddenly veer.

So I'm blowing off steam and having a blast. Big grin, lots of laughs, sexycool people dancing and living it up.

Then a friend walks up to me and leans over to say something.

"What?" I ask, expecting something flirty or funny, some silly bit of hilarity.

"I said SJ - I just got a text message from him. His dog died."

Possibly the last thing I expected to hear on the dancefloor. It is kind of funny in its inappropriateness, but kind of baffling too. Why did they think they needed to interrupt my mood to tell me right there and then? It could have waited. Maybe it's just me, but I really don't want to be thinking about dead dogs while I'm on the dancefloor. I'm odd like that.

The People We Used To Know

Got a random line of poetry
Got a dream
Got a memory
Got a destination, an idea,
Got a place I want to be.

I’m saying goodbye
I’m saying I’m coming
I’m saying it’s good to be back
To a place I’ve never been before.
I want to know what’s next.

I’m a dream
I’m a memory
I’m just some vague notion
Of how things might have been.
Just like you.

We swim through time
Drowning slowly
We remember sometimes, another time
We wonder what happened
As we fade
And become the people we used to know.

A Week At The Office

Today while manning a kitchen at Sexpo, I was surprised to feel in a good enough mood to be singing (quietly) out loud. My song of choice? It's Scandal In New York, featuring Uta Dare. I'm used to the Satoshi Tomiie remix so it was interesting to hear the original. Almost as interesting as it is to hear me singing the lyrics (you have to hit the 6 minute 40 second mark before the fun lyrics kick in).

Can't remember if I told you, but The Dreaded One and I are booked in to play a set in a few months in spite of never having DJ'd. We've got a pretty interesting track selection going, and Scandal In New York is one of my tracks. I'll probably make it the Satoshi remix, but the original is pretty good. So far, our set is going to kick some major butt. We're thinking our DJ name will be Grumpy & Stompy, because I am Grumpy and she wears Swear boots, which are stompy. Also, it's going to be a psytrance gig which involves a lot of stomping.

So, anyway, Sexpo. Got a call from someone looking for casual staff and I only had a couple of days at The Big Pointy building so I said I'd do three days at Sexpo. It's been funny and shit at different times. The food standards... well there are no food standards. It's fucking horrifying actually. I'm embarrassed to be seen there wearing my chef jacket. But it's swapping dollars for hours so there's no real room for weirdo concepts like professional pride. I do wish I had my shit together enough not to have to do silly jobs like this though.

Having said that, it's had its moments and the people are good (one of the service staff was one of these girls) and I've never seen porn stars in the flesh or giant walking penises before, so it's one to chalk up to experience. Got asked by a cute promo chick if I was going to the afterparty and I said probably not. She pouted and giggled off somewhere I'm kind of thinking I might try to find her and say oh all right you've talked me into it.

Both days so far have seen me start off in a foul mood because I am just used to things being better. Standards at The Big Pointy Building are high, man. This morning started off so badly - first job for me was to change the deep frying oil after I told them the night before it needed to be done earlier the previous day - that I swore if anyone gave me any shit I was going to leave. Someone asked about stock and I replied, "How would I know - I haven't looked yet because I'm changing the fucking oil."

Ooh. Cranky Lee.

Not a good start and not really a dynamic day, but you put the systems in place and do the best you can and you lighten the fuck up. Seriously, how can you stay Grumpy when a giant penis has just walked bobbingly by?

Also, I had been to see some really good theatre the night before. Go see Bubble if you're in Sydney. Really good stuff. Pity I wasn't reviewing. Maybe I will here later. I am going along to see Our Country's great for review tonight.

And the other night during a function at The Big Pointy Building, who should come into the kitchen to say hello? David Helfgott. What a bizarre and wonderful experience it was to meet him. Remarkable human being. A lovely little moment.

So, you know, I really shouldn't complain. I really should start off each day feeling happy, even if I am temporarily serving up bought-in, pre-packaged slop to the Sexpo punters.

A Person Dressed As A Blogger

I always root for the bull when it comes to bullfighting, so this story about a small stadium of bloodthirsty spectators comes close to amusing me. It was a bit like an extreme Mexican Wave.

What totally amused me was that when our sultry late night news reader told the story, she said: "The bull came in for a closer look at the damage only to be distracted by a person dressed as a clown."

Okay. It wasn't an actual clown, merely a person dressed as a clown. We need to make the distinction between real clowns and persons impersonating clowns. Because it makes all the difference. I want to know when my clowns are real clowns and when they are regular persons impersonating clowns.

Then again, maybe the emphasis was on "person". Perhaps they wanted to make it clear that it was someone on the humans' side and not a friendly fake clown, like a bull dressed as a clown.

Or perhaps the clown-dressed person looked like, say, a wombat, and the newsreader wanted to make it perfectly clear that nononono, it's not a wombat but a PERSON dressed as a clown.

I started seeing the rest of the news very differently. Suddenly there was a person dressed as a policeman, a person dressed as a politician, yet another person dressed as a person.

All brought to us by a person dressed as a news reader.

Vamp

Nothing to blog here. Nothing funny has happened.

Oh other than minutes ago picking up this brochure and thinking ooh it looks like... and turning it on its side to see if in fact it is a picture of the woman I wrote this really stupid song for and accidentally knocking over a glass of wine on my dining table in the process and completely smashing it. (Glass, not table, obv).

Nothing ever came of the song. See that heel on her left shoe? I feel it through my heart every waking hour...

I thought it was kind of funny that I smashed a good glass because this shot distracted me. I like to think The dreaded One thought it was funny too... even though she told me she thought I was a bit pathetic.

Assassins Review, And An Unexpected World Youth Day Rant

Here's the review of the musical theatre I saw last week. I didn't know whether to mention that all ticket sales go towards the Prostate Cancer Foundation of Australia or not. In the end I thought it best to just focus on the performance itself. It's hard enough to write a satisfying review in 300 words.


Saw a funny thing yesterday. On the way through Circular Quay where thousands of singing, dancing Catholics were gathering to catch a glimpse of the Pope, there was this frail looking old guy, stoop-shouldered and not a hint of happiness about him. He was just standing there staring out at the world through dull eyes. He was wearing a sandwich board that carried a message that went something like, "Wake up, ignorant people. God is just a concept created by stupid humanity."

I know I bagged World Youth Day and maybe there's some truth in the old guy's sentiment, but looking around at all this happiness and celebration, as manufactured as it might be, I couldn't help thinking yeah - but what are you offering?

It was a weird day. I worked on a barbecue outside The Big Pointy Building and we got slammed. I had brief conversations with some of the pilgrims. Almost all of them were happy and smiling, even the old and broken ones. They came from all over the world, a kaleidoscope of accents and skin colour. One guy took his meal and said to me, "Thank you brother. I am going to remember this day for a very long time."

Someone else held up their steak roll and their friend took a photo with us and the Harbour Bridge in the background, like: This is how Australians celebrate everything including a papal visit - with a barbecue."

I've been in those food situations before where there are massive queues and I can honestly say this was the most pleasant of them all.

So, miserable old guy with your sandwich board message, as manufactured as The Church may be, with its often grim history and with all of it myriad problems, the good bits are actually pretty good.

Better to dance and rejoice in something than stand around feeling pissed off because people are happy, don't you think Sour Old Guy? I mean, why the fuck did you even bother getting out of bed? I can't believe that your level of bitterness is so great that you thought it would be a good idea to get up out of bed, put on that ridiculous sandwich board and go outside to try to rain on someone else's parade, you misery stricken fucker. In fact you know what? Just because of you I really hope God is real, because I would love to see the look on your craggy old face when you realise that not only have you been a miserable bastard all this time but you've been wrong too. Haaha! That would be hilarious. You before God with your ridiculous sandwich board feeling like the utter twat you are. In fact I'm half tempted to go back down there where I don't doubt you are still standing like the morose cadaver you are, and gaffer tape you inside that sandwich board and spray a smiley face on one side and "The Lord Is Great" on the other. My God, Sour Old Guy, your version of hell would actually be a happy place, wouldn't it. A place filled with laughter and smiles and people doing good things for each other. You sad, sad...

Ooh. A rant supporting World Youth Day. Didn't see that one coming.

Mee, The Musical

There's been bugger all Faux Chef work for me this week so I've been saying yes to everything Drum has been asking me to write.

"Can you go to Underbelly Arts Festival and review it for us please?"

"Yes." (review to come out next week. Feature to the side came out a couple of weeks ago).

"Can you interview the guy from Kino Short Film Festival please?"

"Yes."

"Can you interview someone from Legs On The Wall about their new show Bubble please?"

"Yes."

"Can you write something about Reefer Madness - "

"Yes!" (This one is going to be a blast).

"What about doing a review of Assass - "

"YES! Okay? Yes. Whatever you've got, I'll do it."

Made me feel a little bit of a writing whore, but what the hell.

Then I'm in the shower and I start to think about the show I'm getting ready to go and see, and I'm thinking, wait on - why does Stephen Sondheim ring a bell, but not a very big or nice one. I think harder. I stop mid-lather... Noooooooooooo... doesn't Stephen Sondheim do musicals? YES! Don't I really really hate musicals? YES!

Fuck.

Jesus Cares

I have designed a T shirt. You can check it out here and even rank it and maybe even buy a shirt. I think it's funny. I think you should vote for it and maybe even buy one.

Something good has come out of World Youth Pointy Head Happy Clappy Cheesy Go Away Please Day after all.

Dear World Youth Day Sydney 2008

Dear World Youth Day,

Thank you for coming to Sydney. I work on a casual basis at The Big Pointy Building and although it's been pretty quiet for the last couple of weeks and there hasn't been much work, next week was looking good again. Lots of functions were booked in and I was looking forward to a couple of good shifts. But then the full extent of World Youth Day and its impact on access to The Big Pointy Building became clear and everyone canceled their functions to hold them somewhere more easily accessed. So guess what? No income for me. Hoorah! Thanks heaps for that.

Also, I recently joined an agency and they told me that it's really quiet at the moment because of World Youth Day. No work for Faux Chefs and not even any work for the legions of waiters relying on the catering industry for their income. Because although there is lots of catering taking place on your happy clappy day, it's all being done by volunteers. So on behalf of everyone struggling to make a living in the hospitality industry, thank you, World Youth Day. Big hugs and kisses of gratitude.

And look, it's not your fault especially, but all these ridiculous 'annoyance' laws? Thank you for being indirectly responsible for the authorities introducing yet more dodgy policing laws. Thank you so much.

And thank you for totally buggering up our roads and city access. Thank you so much for imposing yourself on those of us who didn't invite you here in the first place.

I love you World Youth Day.

Lots of love,

Lee.

Grumpy In The Flesh

Lazy post because I am lazy. But here's what the ed of Tsunami had to say about our deliciously boozey first meeting. Nice to know that I am not grumpy in the flesh. I really enjoyed that night. Gavin and Eliza are good people.

Recently I was telling someone about the difficulty I am having with my eye and because I couldn't remember the name of the condition, they laughed. That's nice, isn't it. Nice one, fucker.

Had no option but to strangle him with his own dreadlocks.

I'm giving this eye thing six months max. After that... I guess I'll give it another six months. Or laser the fucker. Am very over it.

The Mystery Of The Mysterious Poem

Cleaning out my bedside Drawer Of Shit, I came across this poem. A poem for me. A poem written about me. A poem written about me by someone called Jo.

Thing is, who the fuck is Jo?

It mentions my purple Turkish poncho, so the poem must have been written in late '06 or '07 after my Turkey trip... and I'm really hoping it wasn't written any more recently than that because I really don't remember Jo.

Getting more Sherlock on its arse, it has to be a doof Jo because I only wear my purple Turkish poncho to outdoor parties. So it was a winter doof (can't have been this year then as it's only winter now). The only doof Jo I know has really short hair and always looks at me suspiciously, like she knows I'm up to something and even though she doesn't know exactly what it is, she's on to me. There is no way she would write a girlycute poem about me being lovely and cuddly.

I think where the author says the bit about "a kool friend forever till the end", they must have meant till the end of the party. Or the end of the poem.

Baffled, I am.

Eye-ronic

I've been talking to The Cosmos a lot recently, my theory being that if I make friends with it, it will be good to me. Each time a nice thing happens to me I say, "Thank you, Cosmos, that was a very cool thing you just did for me and I appreciate it a lot."

And if a shitty thing happens to me I figure it's better not to point the finger of blame at The Cosmos (which would be pretty difficult anyway, when you think about it) but to accept that it was my fault and I had a shitty thing coming: "Ah - fair enough, Cosmos, I did that shitty thing the other day so I had a shitty thing coming my way. My bad."

Sitting here just now I've just realised what an ironic sense of humour The Cosmos can have. Some time ago I realised my vision was not as perfect as it once was so I had my eyes tested. I needed reading glasses. Then recently my left eye developed something called Central Serous Retinopathy, an annoying condition that in most cases goes away by itself after a few months.

The irony at play here is that it is now pointless wearing my reading glasses because although they improve the vision in my right eye, they magnify the shadowy distortion in my left eye... "Ha ha, Cosmos, good one. What a wicked sense of humour. Funny fucker, you are... love your work. So ironic. Love it. Brilliant."

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.