Next Time

The background shadow of lack of self-esteem comes to the fore as I walk past a famous actress who I assume has forgotten we met, and she stops me and says hello and turns her face for an opening night cheek-kiss. Nice, but the lingering feeling is that I moved on too quickly after pleasantries, thinking she was just being polite. Next time, I hope, I'll linger a little. I think maybe she expected me to linger a little. Sometimes people think I am confident. A lot of the time, I am destructively shy.

And again as I pat a fellow and far superior theatre reviewer on the shoulder to say goodbye and we get muddled in that hand-shake-or-hug thing. And hug is the muddled outcome, with laughs. Oh you knucklehead.

And on the same theatre opening night... the audience is exiting and someone says my name. It's a former co-worker I've seen at these things many times but be damned if I have been able to remember his name, even though I remember the person so well. There's a tone in his voice when he says my name. It's the tone of invitation. It's a tone that says hey I remember you, dude, remember me?

I fess up and smack my forehead as he says his name. Of course I remember him. Of course I remember why we got along. I just forgot a minor detail, like the name because it's been so long.

Next time, I'll hang around and talk to the actress. Next time I'll just assume a hug is the thing with the reviewer.

And next time I'll say to my former co-worker Joey, "Hey man - thanks so much for remembering me and bothering to say hello. Kept seeing you at these things and wondered if you had seen me... so glad you said hello."

Hope there's a next time.

Epic Pillow Fight

Conversation today:
Me: Who do you reckon would win in a pillow fight between Steve McQueen and Elvis Presley?
Her: Steve McQueen. What about a pillow fight between Steve McQueen and Chuck Norris?

Me: Whoah.
Her: Yep. That would be one epic pillow fight.

Creative Heroes: The David Bowie Exhibition, Melbourne 2015

Went to the David Bowie exhibition today. It's had a big impact on me. This man is a great artist and I'd forgotten how much I have loved his music over the years. I came away from this exhibition feeling the same way as when I've walked away from a Picasso exhibition or the Joan Miro museum or anything that Gaudi has had anything to do with. These are my creative heroes.

But David Bowie is within my lifetime, unlike the others. Heroes... I was a young boy when I first heard this song. Heroes was the most epic song I had ever heard. I didn't know what it was about at the time, but I heard a passion in it that I hadn't encountered before.

A few years later in the 70s, I said something about how much I liked Bowie's music, and a suburban relative asked me, "Do you mean in his boy phase or his girl phase?"

Confused? Fuck yeah. As naive as I was, I knew this person was making some kind of point. I knew she knew more than I knew. It dawned on me that maybe my musical idol maybe different to the norm of suburban Australia. I realised at that moment that maybe as-yet-non-sexual me was missing some point, but there was also this: I don't fucking care. I just like this music.

David Sedaris In Lee's Alternative Universe

David Sedaris is coming to Melbourne in January 2016. I think I'll go see/hear him. I've been curious about him ever since an editor friend told me 10 years ago that my humor writing "reminds me of a less camp David Sedaris."

I hadn't heard of David Sedaris back then, but I could tell that this was a compliment. Since that moment I've read snippets of David Sedaris' stuff and heard a couple of things and maybe read an interview or two, and indeed, my editor friend was paying me a big compliment; David Sedaris is a very funny man.

And I like to imagine that there is a parallel universe somewhere where an editor friend of David Sedaris has said, "You know, David - your writing reminds me of that very funny and successful humourist Lee Bemrose. Your writing is a bit more camp than his - he's a bit of a Viking after all -  but it's just as funny."

And David, poor, struggling David, he knows instinctively that this is a compliment even though he has never heard of this Lee Bemrose person. Curious, however, David Googles Lee and discovers that Lee Bemrose is one of the greatest and most astonishingly successful humourists of modern times. So excellent is he at his craft that he has his own radio show and is a much in-demand guest on all the popular television talk shows and he travels the world leaving in his wake seasons of sellout shows and satisfied audiences who talk about the enjoyment Bemrose has brought to them long after they have seen his shows. "Oh my God - that thing he said... the way he told that story... the thing about the thing... such a talented and funny funny man... Oh my God I love and adore him so much..."

And David Sedaris, in this alternative universe, is filled with admiration and even a little hope that one day his career as a humourist might take off. Imagine, David thinks, not having to work for pocket money for street press or masquerading in hospitality as a chef or any of the other myriad odd jobs he must do to pay the bills while on the side writing the stuff that he one day hopes will make strangers laugh.

Alternative Universe David Sedaris does indeed get his frequent. modest writing gigs. He hones his craft. He even gets his very own humour column called Happy. Happy is about all the silly things that happen to David and his long suffering partner The Loved One, known as such because of their head of brightly coloured and very lovely dreadlocks.

And although David's Happy column runs for about 10 years and is hugely popular with the magazine's readership, David's career as a humourist never really takes off. He accepts this and accepts that he is happy to do it for the love of it, and because knowing that you have brought some laughter into the lives of friends and strangers is actually the most perfect and suitable gift he could be given. He is perfectly happy to sit down each day and write stuff that makes him laugh, and know that once published, it will make others laugh too.

In his twilight years, now running a little cafe called Happy & The Loved One's Little Cafe Of Okay, David Sedaris the reluctant barista receives an unexpected email. It's from none other than Lee Bemrose himself. Lee confesses that he has always been a bit of a fan of David's Happy column and - long-shot that it is - was wondering if David might like to open his show by, you know, doing a reading of a few of his columns because Lee has always felt that David is really very funny and deserving of a much bigger, more adoring audience. Not to mention fuckloads more money.

David tears up a little. Finally, his big break. Late in life, but better late than never, as they say. And a break given to him by the legendary humourist Lee Bemrose... who could ever have imagined...

Meanwhile, back in this alternative universe, I'll be seeing this slightly camper, much more successful and undoubtedly much funnier version of me in January. Looking forward to it, actually.

Basically, Lee Hates Wankers

All the creative people I've met and haven't met, all the artists and the writers and the actors and the story tellers... I have gotten so much more from them than I have from The Celebrities and the sports people and the politicians. Give me gentle and intelligent creativity over bombastic domination any day.

A Stranger In A Strange Land

A new worker working with us. English is not B's first language. She has taught herself our language, and though a bit bumpy, I think she is doing a superb job. Also, she is absolutely lovely in nature.  She is kind and intelligent and helpful and funny. These are the things you want in a co-worker.

It's interesting watching the facial expressions and the general attitude of our customers when they deal with her, especially when there is some confusion because of the language thing. Some people are all smiles and patience and make the effort to make small-talk.

Others squint and shake their head a little and get a slight tone, a superior attitude. Some talk down to her and seem to think she is unintelligent.

And these people make me want to ask how their second language skills are. How the fuck have you been at living in another country, supporting yourself, speaking another language? Would you be as good and gracious and intelligent and helpful to others and as funny as B is? Have you travelled? Do you have any empathy at all?

B has seemed oblivious to their ignorance, and has just quietly gone about serving everyone in good grace, with helpfulness, intelligence and her gentle humour.

Am very happy to be working with B. I feel kind of sorry for the squinters and head-shakers.

I Remember You

I remember the clouds in my blue skies
The rainbows on those rainy days
The sunsets at the end of days.

And at the end of days,
I remember you.

The Big Issue

We have a semi-regular customer in the cafe. He is not one of life's successes. He is gentle. He is worn and threadbare, a person of the street. He is a bit more into God and salvation than people I am generally drawn to. He has asked me to God meetings and has tried to engage me with talk of Baptism. Sometimes it has been awkward because I have had to say, no thank you, your God is not for me. But thank you.

Yesterday he came in with a friend who is also on life's fringe. Some people have it so rough it does your head in. They remind you to never complain again, because compared to some people, you ungrateful fucker, you have it sooooo good.

So Mark and his friend come in and they order two pots of tea and a slice of sweetness. They sit down. I take their tea and slice to them. Mark is talking quite excitedly of work. I've often wondered what he does with the rest of his time. The concept of employment never really came into it. I just didn't know.

"Hey Lee," Mark says through that lop-sided smirk he always talks to me through. "You would know about that magazine - The Big Issue? We're selling that now, him and me. You know that magazine?"

"I know that magazine. It's a good magazine. Good on you."

The Big Issue is a good magazine. I know the vendors on the street often look worn-down (with some other ones seeming like hyped buskers), but seeing Mark in the cafe looking so chuffed to be doing something, some work... yes, it's a good magazine.

The Dark Miracle.

The Dark Miracle

Lee Bemrose

The greatest species on planet Earth is broken in ways that can't be fixed. We are too many.We are too greedy. We are too hungry, too careless, too violent, too willing to believe in God. We are too divided, too superstitious, too fearful, too hateful. We want too much, want what isn't ours, we want more and we want to be over there where life is better. But we don't want them here, where life indeed is better, because this is ours, this better life, not theirs. Humanity is going mad, turning on itself like Calhoun's rats. We have embarked on our own destruction, and there is no turning back. We are destroying the forests and jungles, the oceans and the air. We are destroying this miracle planet, fully aware of what we are doing and where it will leave us. We are too smart for our own good, too stupid to save us from ourselves. Our demise is inevitable. We are accelerating towards it, no turning back. We missed our chance. Perhaps we never had a chance. Certainly, now, we don't stand a chance. We could have been light, but we are the dark miracle that is humanity, and we are broken in ways that can't be fixed.

On Being Immortal

Click image twice to make it readable.

A friend sent this to me recently. Something I wrote about 10 years ago. Sometimes, amongst the silliness, it was fun to slip something a little more serious into the mix. Although I had forgotten about this piece, I remember so very clearly writing it, and what was going on in my life at the time. Those were the crazy days, the out of control days, the too much fun days.

The hand-written note my friend sent to me said flattering things. But most flattering was the fact that 10 years ago my friend bothered to cut the column out and keep it.

Feeling Smuggly

I love walking home from the cafe - even in this biting cold. All rugged up in my warm things and scarf and beanie and big jacket, I'm all "Fuck you, Cold, you can't make me cold with your pathetic cold, not when I'm all rugged up against you like this. Your feeble attempts to make me cold merely make me laugh."

It makes me feel kind of smuggly.

Squirting Rainbows

Sunday lunch. It makes me so happy I squirt rainbows out of my head.

Things

Sometimes when I say I like a thing, it's because I like a thing. Sometimes when I say I think a thing is funny, it's because I think a thing is funny. Sometimes when I say I've disengaged from a thing, it's because I've disengaged from a thing.

Sometimes things are just things.

I Am A Miracle, Malthouse Theatre, Review

                                               Photo by Pia Johnson

I Am A Miracle

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose



I Am A Miracle is the latest work from Melbourne writer Declan Greene. My short review? Wow. Epic. Dreamlike. Nightmarish. Disturbing. Confronting. Thrilling. Biblical. Poetic. Perfect theatre. Go see it.

Oh how I'd like to leave it at that. However I suspect a few more words and thoughts are expected, probably with some of that syntax stuff involved. Oh well, here goes...

There are three stories being told here. There's the story of an 18^th century Dutch boy who grows up, joins the armed forces and sails away to the colonies to help quash a slave rebellion. There is the story of a contemporary city dweller and his clash with his carer as his mental deterioration worsens. Both of these stories are book-ended, in a way, by the true story of Marvin Lee Wilson who spent 18 years on death row before being executed for his life of crime. It was revealed that his low IQ should have seen him avoid the death penalty; alas, it did not.

This very ambitious production draws you in from the start with its powerful story-telling and at times glitteringly poetic text. The acting is masterful. The set design and sound production are nothing short of stunning. There's a kind of harrowing beauty going on here – especially towards the end - coming at you from all directions.

Bert LaBonte opens the show with a kind of countdown to the hour of execution of Marvin, as he offers a futile list of unfinished promises to do something, of futile hope that some last minute thing will happen to prevent this imminent death. There is an argument, of sorts, between the three figures on stage, and the situation does indeed seem futile; there is a reason these Angels Of Justice are wearing prisoner overalls.

This gives way to Milita Jurisic's wonderful monologue of the life story of our Dutch soldier. Surprisingly funny on occasion, it grips and manages to be incredibly evocative of the bloody hardship suffered by the invading Westerners and the slaves alike. The whimsical intro of our hero's journey gives way to brutal reality, ending on a note of yearning. Jirisic takes on several characters, and armed with such excellent text she drags us through the gamut of emotions with aplomb. It's a bit of a bravo performance.

LaBonte takes centre stage in the next story, a very modern, domestic drama. Again, there are unexpected laughs, but the mood here quickly darkens. Nothing whimsical here. This is confronting and raw and so sadly real. LaBonte and Jirisic as the combatants make you feel for both of them and the situation they are so tragically locked into.

There is a third cast member, Hannah Le Crisp. She frequently adds to the ethereal feel of the production with her soaring operatic vocals. Gorgeous stuff. A lot of thought has been given to the sound production, and it works like the best soundtrack of your favourite movie.

The play closes, back to that countdown, back to the futility, back to those prisoner angels and talk of God and justice, back further and further... can't remember the last time I felt (you don't just see it, you feel it) such an epic and thought-provoking close to a play.

It takes a while to unravel just exactly what you've seen here, just what connects these three stories. It stays with you, this play.

At Malthouse Theatre, Melbourne. Season Ends August 9th

I Am A Miracle, Malthouse Theatre, Short Review

                                                              Image by Pia Johnson.


Just got back from seeing a play called I Am A Miracle at The Malthouse Theatre. Wow. Epic. Dreamlike. Nightmarish. Disturbing. Thrilling. Biblical. Poetic. Just perfect theatre. Review with more words and improved syntax for Australian Stage coming tomorrow. Or read the longer review here.

Actually, this is the perfect review for this play. I'm guaranteed to fuck it up by adding words and syntax. Can't wait to do that.

Helpless

Some moments in life stay with you.

There's a local street guy I see around, in various states of psychosis or inebriation. Sometimes he's well behaved, just clearly insane, but somehow aware of how correct behaviour should be. I've seen him rage on the streets. I've seen him cry. I've seen him plead for a sandwich or a piece of toast, because I am homeless and please help me.

He came into the cafe recently and asked if we could spare a couple of pieces of vegemite toast. He was expecting to be brushed off, waved away. He's jittery and twitchy and knows how the world is. No one has any time for him. Life is miserable, for him. There is no food and no shelter for him. Love and affection? When was the last time he felt love and affection?

You can't encourage these people, you understand. We have a business to run. Every day right now is a struggle. And the guy has been in before. He got his sandwich that time too, that time bought by a kind-hearted doctor.

Struggle.

I gave him his vegemite toast. His state was calm that day. He said thank you. He said “I'm good like that, I'm good when I'm good.” And he left. I watched him walk down the street, tearing open the bag to tuck into his warm vegemite toast on this chilly winter day.

Next day, on my walk home from my cosy cafe to my warm home, I saw him again. He was in the worst state I've seen him. Carrying his half loaf of bread, he stumbled in circles, didn't know what the hell was going on. He dropped his bread, picked it up again. Staggered and stumbled. He bumped into me, said he was sorry.

I kept going but had to wait at the intersection. Behind me now, the guy stumbled forward and hit his head on the traffic light pole. He exploded. “CUNTS! YOU ARE ALL SUCH FUCKING CUNTS AND I FUCKING HATE YOU!” His voice was raw. There was a raw gash under one eye, but it was not a fresh wound. He hurled his bread into the busy intersection of traffic, people in their cosy cars going to their warm homes.

“I fucking hate you. I really do.”

He crumpled to the footpath.

The traffic light changed, and I looked away. I looked ahead and crossed the road and kept walking towards my cosy and warm home.

And I didn't feel happy or blessed and the moral of the story isn't that we should all appreciate what precious things we have, I just felt like shit.

Gertrude Street Projection Festival 2015: Whoa!

The cafe is part of the quite wonderful Gertrude Street Projection Festival. We checked it out last night. Much wonder and fun. And a bit of unexpected hilarity.

We checked out the projection being shown from our cafe. It initially looks static, like a projection of a classic oil landscape. But it is moving footage, it's just that the motion is very minute. After watching the projection for several minutes, a slowly dramatic change takes place. A shadow from the left starts to take over the rusted orange hues more and more until the whole thing goes up in a lovely puff of smoke. And starts all over again.

There was a group of friends watching at the same time we were. Some of them noticed the tiny changes and ooh-ed and ah-ed. One of them got bored and wandered a short way down the alley, and triggered an overhead light to come on and artfully illuminate a doorway.

“Whoa! Check this one out! It doesn't start projecting until you walk across this part!”
“Whoa! How cool is that? And it goes back off after you move over here. So cool!”
“Oh wow!”

These probable stoners continued to marvel at the wonders of the movement detector switch that allows the tenants in the building above the cafe to find their keys in the dark as the climax of the actual projection took place.

“Whoa! Check it! Move back over here and... Amazing!”

Grumpy & The Dreaded One giggled their arses off as they made their way down Gertrude Street.

Cuckoo By Jane Miller, Review

Cuckoo
45 Downstairs
45 Flinders Lane,
Melbourne

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

Strange one, this one. It suffers from what I'm going to think of in the future as The Cuckoo Effect. You're dying to know what The Cuckoo Effect is, aren't you. Well, I really enjoyed this play as it was unfolding whilst ignoring a few of the questions and quibbles The Little Voice was whispering in my ear. After all, it's an intriguing story, creatively told by a small cast of good actors. The intriguing bits are intriguing, the dramatic bits are dramatic and the funny bits are (mostly) funny, so shut-up, quibbly little voice and let me enjoy this thing.

And I did enjoy it. But the more distance there was between me being there seeing the play, and being away and looking back and thinking about the play, the more The Little Voice seemed to have a few valid quibbles. That's The Cuckoo Effect.

The story follows the lives of Mel (Natalie Carr) and Leo (Matthew Molony) and what happens to their lives when their apparently long-lost son J (Samuel Russo in a twitchy and unsettlingly quirky performance) turns up 17 years or so after he mysteriously vanished. The young adult claims to have been injured in a bicycle accident and in need of help. Mel is keen to help, but Leo is suspicious of this intruder with whom something is clearly not right. What follows is a story of love (and the dying of), desire, yearning, memory, regret, rejection and loyalty. All the ingredients are in place for some really good theatre, and it mostly delivers.

J's unexpected arrival opens up, for the married couple, new possibilities and a whole can of worms. If he is who he says he is, what happened? Where has he been? What went wrong? Who is to blame for his disappearance?

If he is not who he claims to be, who is he? What does he want? And how does he know how to manipulate them so easily?

The play is billed as a black comedy, and that's not an inaccurate description. There's a lot of psychological drama going on, as you'd expect with such a scenario, and there are plenty of laughs to be had. Indeed, this kind of story could be played as a straight and powerful drama. But the writer (Jane Miller) has chosen to infuse this quite serious story with humour.

And this is in part the source of some of The Little Voice's whispered quibbles. While the different and quite separate moods mostly work in isolation, they kind of jar at times. There isn't really a smooth transition between them, mainly because the drama and psychological tension is done so well, and some of the humour (not all) borders on farcical or the absurd, so much so that it clashes and jangles. The human frailty stuff is genuinely moving and natural. Some of the humour, while funny, just seems out of place or unnecessary. The character Dan (David Kambouris) - possibly the cop who delivered the news of the son's disappearance all those years ago and who is now a friend of Mel and Leo's – felt at times like a character from an awful sitcom like Hey Dad. Well played, but a frequently annoying character with frequently annoying “funny” lines.

There's also the suspension of disbelief problem. With a really successful story, you just agree to its unspoken terms and conditions and accept whatever unlikely romance or tragedy or fantasy the story suggests. You just let yourself get drawn in. With slightly less successful stories, you find yourself saying yeah but... but why don't they... but if this really happened...

I guess what's stayed with me the most are the naturalistic parts of the play dealing with emotional struggle. So well done. This is a story about the hopes of a missing child returning and the challenges that go with that, but it's also a story about fading love and rejection.

The flashback scenes are effective in giving clues as to what Mel and Leo's life was like prior to their son's disappearance, as well as the circumstances leading up to the event itself. They may have gotten on with their lives and eventually accepted that their son simply vanished, but we see that even in the most ordinary of families, all is not necessarily what it seems and blame and self-recrimination are simply burdens that must be endured if we are to get on with life.

There is real drama and tension as the three main characters become locked in a psychological battle for what they want or need out of this situation, and there is an air of creepiness or menace as well. The mystery of what has actually taken place remains right up to the quite poignant closing scene.

Season ends July 26

Sweating Rainbows

Some days, things just don't feel right, like you've swallowed fistfuls of butterflies and peacock feathers, and  now you've got this fever going. You can't think straight, can't make out just what's going on right in front of jittering eyes, everything shape-shifting and morphing. And you get those damned sweats again, those damned rainbow sweats.

Some days, you've gotta just roll with it, no matter how weird it gets.

Standard Units Of Measurement Revisted: The Piano

Just watched a news report that described a NASA deep space probe as being "The size of a piano."
When the fuck did they change the standard measurement of size from football fields to musical instruments?

I don't know how big a piano is. Is it bigger than a harpsichord? Do 16 theremins = one piano? How many banjos = one piano?

The Faffing Song

My turn to cook tonight. The Dreaded One makes a slightly... no totally and completely snarky and unjustified comment about we'd better hurry up because no we don't have plenty of time because you are not factoring in the Lee Faff Factor. I was bit hurt. Me faff?

At home. In the kitchen. I get cracking because of this "Faffing" accusation.

At an unspecified time after I get cracking, I find myself gazing into the middle distance as my mind goes to work on a new project. The project is a song called The Faffing Song, sung to the tune of Nick Cave's The Weeping Song.

"Ann go into the kitchen,
And see Lee faffing there,
Then go into the lounge-room,
Lee is faaaaaff-ing there too...

This is The Faffing Song,
A song in which to faff..."

My creative flow is interrupted by The Dreaded One who has apparently, with her ninja like senses, detected that cooking activity has ceased.

What are you thinking about, Lee?

Best you don't know, I tell her as I get cracking on dinner again.

The Faffing Song though, I have to do this.

Sometimes I Wonder

Sometimes I wonder

Looking at old photos,
Walking down a street
Leaving loved ones behind,
I don't care,
I've dis-engaged,
I'm focused on the road ahead.

Until I look at those old photos.
Those old faded memories,
And I wonder what happened,
Were you happy?
Are you happy?

Sometimes I wonder.

Asking The Big Questions

Yesterday a Porsche drove by that was the exact colour of our new fondue pot. So the big question that looms in my mind (because I am a big, looming questiony kind of guy) is, is it a Porsche-coloured fondue pot or a fondue pot-coloured Porsche?

Conversations With Our Customers - Mr Guatemala

A guy walks into the cafe oozing absurd amount of confidence. Says, "I'm after a pie. Yeah, I want a pie. You have?"

The daily pie special is a roasted vegetable, haloumi and tomato pie. This customer has too much confidence to eat a roasted vegetable, haloumi and tomato pie. This level of confidence requires something's flesh. He sees the house-made Moroccan lamb sausage roll. He announces that he will try a house-made Moroccan lamb sausage roll,  to takeaway.

Then he turns his confidence to me. I've been watching the guy deal with my helper and wondering just where in the fuck someone gets this kind of confidence. Is there a place you can go and swap some insecurity for some confidence? Why do I not know about this place? Why has no one told me? Perhaps I can trade a little paranoia for some sex appeal while I'm there.

"I might have a coffee while I'm waiting for my sausage roll," the guy tells me with a kind of nod and wink that is neither an actual nod or wink, his confidence a dazzling thing somehow magically just holding back from smarminess. How the fuck is he doing this?

"Um... okay," is my riposte.

"So what can you tell me about the beans?"

Oh God, I think. "They're not a brand you're going to recognise. They're not a 'label' brand. They're kind of our own blend."

"Your own blend?" His tone has turned its head ever so slightly to one side and raised one eyebrow as if to say prey do tell.

"Well it's our supplier's blend. I think she supplies a few select cafes around Melbourne. Like I say, It's not a recognised brand but we think it's good coffee."

"What can you tell me about the components?" he asks, his tone jutting its chin in a slightly outwardly-upwardly direction, making me want us to stop talking about things so that I can just make his coffee, since I can't be suddenly on a beach in Barcelona with my fellow nude Spaniards, sipping mojitos and discussing Gaudi.

Truth is, it's been so long since I've thought of the 'components' of our coffee beans that I can't quite recall them.

"Erm... it's a blend of beans from New Guinea, Guatemala... India..."

I'm really hoping something kind of big, like Armageddon, is going to happen right now because if it doesn't, I'm going to have to start pulling coffee growing countries out of my arse. And if I do that, I suspect this fucker will be right onto me.

"Ethiopia or - "

"I don't KNOW!" I whimper.

"Hmm. Well I like Guatemalan coffee. I'll take a long black."

"In a take-away as well?"

"Nah. hit me with ceramic. I'll sit outside and smash out a cigarette while I'm waiting for my sausage roll."

I fully expect him to shoot me with his two finger guns and make clicking sounds with his tongue.

I am very happy that he is gone, but equally sad that I now have to make this Guatemalan coffee appreciator a long black. On the one hand I am glad he is not a latte drinker because the result of my attempts at latte art are as unpredictable as Melbourne weather. On the other hand, with a long black there is nothing to hide behind. I like coffee and I think ours is good, but I am no connoisseur. This bastard, I feel sure, is.

Which is fine. All I have to do is not fuck up his coffee.

I make the coffee and take it out to him. The grind has been perfect. I manually stopped the extraction at 27 seconds because I like the number 27 (I just like to stop the extraction on a long black before 30 seconds - at 27 seconds - because some of the most legendary rock stars died at the age of 27 and so... er...). The crema - floated so deftly on the surface of the water - looks glorious in its deep caramel hue. It's a good looking cup of Joe. I feel confident.

But not confident enough to double shoot Mr Guatemala with my finger guns.

Service is busy. I'm getting nailed on the coffee machine but as Mr Guatemala's Moroccan sausage roll comes through, I grab it because I want to take it out to him and find out what he thought of the coffee. I need to know.

Outside. I walk towards him. I open my mouth to ask but he cuts me off with his diamond-hard confidence.

"You've got a good cup of coffee there."

"Oh really?" I sob. "Because you had me worried there. You obviously know your coffee." I wipe the tears from my eyes with the heel of my hand.

"Nah. I'm a discerning customer that's all. And a happy one. It's good stuff." His smile is all finger guns and click-clicks. He takes his sausage roll rides off into the sunset.

I skip into the cafe and kind of frolic in my Viking-frolicky way for the rest of this wonderfully sunshine-filled afternoon.

Not even Spoonwoman could bring me down now.

He's Got What Helfgott

We have a new semi-regular customer in the cafe. He doesn't play the piano (or maybe he does - what do I know?), but he reminds me very much of David Helfgott. His name is Pat, and he is a wonderfully quirky fucker. He introduced himself the first time he came into the cafe, then came in again and remembered my name, told me about his partner and his marital status and then made strange jokes all in his rapid-fire way of speaking. He is weirdly charming, totally oddball, and I am intrigued.

A week passed and he came in again. I think he is going to St Vinnies to have something done to his foot. He is hooked on our Moroccan lamb sausage rolls. He said "Hello Lee - my name's Pat," the words tumbling and stuttering out enthusiastically. The thought that I might not remember him was quite funny.

He came over after his meal to tell me again how much he likes our sausage rolls, then tried to get to know me, asking what I was up to this weekend and he bets I'm going to catch some football. Sadly, this is a conversational cul de sac with me because I am not a footy guy. We chatted for a bit though and he intrigued me more. Previously he had been making his wife of 30 years or more (but we're not hitched) laugh over lunch, so I sense he is a nice guy.

I'm going to try to make more time for him and get to know him because the quirky fuckers, they are colour and music.

Love And Information At The Malthouse, Review

Love And Information

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose



It's often fun to go into a play with the bare minimum knowledge about it. Don't read every review ever written of every production ever performed. Don't read interviews with the playwright or various actors or performers to get their take on the play, just go in blind and make your own mind up. Don't be swayed by the opinions of those bloody reviewers (seriously, what do those knuckle-heads know anyway?), get what YOU get out of the play. Definitely don't read publicity for the thing because the publicity machine only has one thing in mind, and that's bums on seats. Don't even read the program before going into the theatre. Just wing it. Dive into the abyss. Let the story pull you in and weave its magic. Let the themes appear to you of their own accord. Let the plot thicken and the characters develop...

All I can say with regard to Love And Information is thank God I didn't do all of this on this occasion because without sneaking a look at the program in the foyer before going in, I wouldn't have had lonely clue what the hell was going on before me. Even armed with the knowledge my program provided, I'm still not game enough to say I completely understood what was going on.

Effectively, from what this knuckle-head can gather, British playwright Caryl Churchill has written something of a game or a puzzle of a play. The play is written in seven sections, each with seven scenes which can be played in whatever order suits the director. There are additional sections to the seven acted out which contain scenes that may or may not be inserted throughout the play. Ultimately there are 76 scenes on offer, involving around 100 characters, played in this case by eight actors. With me? Good, because I'm not sure I am.

So there is no linear narrative. No story, as such, but perhaps many micro stories, all involving questions of love and information, more of the latter than the former, I think. Character development? Yeah kind of, occasionally, in teeny weeny ways. The whole thing really is a big, jangly, often frenetic, sometimes moody, frequently funny collection of vignettes. As such, there isn't the exquisite satisfaction of being told a story. There is no sitting back and letting The Story pull you into its world. This creature is too chopped up, too fragmented like a smashed kaleidoscope for any of that tell-me-a-story stuff.

The play seems to be prodding us to think about the nature of information. We live in the information age, so it's not a bad question to ask. Information is all around us. We devour it, we send it, we are it. Literally, we are information, it's there in our DNA. Information can change the way we see a situation or think of a person. Sometimes we don't want to know certain information, or wonder if we would have been better off not knowing it. Some information we keep to ourselves as secrets; and is this better or worse for them (or us). Certainly, friendship and love can be turned on its head with the appropriate information.

In spite of the absence of the snuggly blanket of a big old story, this certainly was an engaging performance. The stage was stark and white with movable white blocks for props and back-lit doorways around the stage through which the actors entered and exited again to make their hasty costume changes. Sometimes all the cast were on stage together, sometimes just an intimate two engaging in no more than an intimate two or three words. Settings were varied – domestic home; the office; a roadworks site; the gym; a psyche consultation room; a garden; a cemetery; a moving train carriage; a museum... sometimes it was non-specific, just friends in their bubble, swapping information. All scene changes were suggested by the choreographed rearrangement of these blocks by the energetic cast of actors.

The cast was brilliant. They had to chop and change myriad times and instantly change the tone from comical to tragic to mundane and back again.

The musical score by The Sweats was a large part of the performance and was all synthy energy early on, softening to some wonderfully haunting ambiance in the late scenes. The last couple of scenes were actually quite wonderful. The reading of the... the symbolism of the... the argument about the... You really don't need to hear this information right now from me. Best go see it for yourself. It's well worth it.

A Twisted Tale Of Demented Mind Games

Some customers walked in to the cafe today and said they had come here because they were told we made the best coffee in the area. This is a big call, given that we are on Gertrude Street. I asked who told them that, and they said one of the nurses at St Vincents. Said the nurse said we were pretty much the best cafe in the area.

Regardless of whether this is true or not, it's pretty impressive that someone thinks this is the case and is willing to recommend us as such.

The customers ordered three Grumpy Burgers and some vego quiche, so I'm guessing the nurse is also a big fan of our burgers. They enjoyed their food and coffee and left saying that they were glad the nurse had recommended us. Warm and fuzzies all round.

Until a hideous thought crawled across my mind the way a zombie demon baby will crawl across your bedroom floor tonight when you are asleep so that it can eat your eyeballs and suck your brain out of the empty eye sockets... what if Nurse Recommendy is that embodiment of evil herself, Spoonwoman? Fucking Spoonwoman!

This vile thought crossed my now tormented mind today after Spoonwoman came in for her afternoon large skim latte with one sugar and OUTRAGEOUSLY was pleasant again. She was really fucking nice. The fucking bitch! How dare she! She asked for her coffee with a please, thanked me when I gave her the coffee (even for this dark witch I will make the best coffee I can), and paid for a $4.20 coffee with a fiver and told me to keep the change. It was almost enough to make me reach out across the counter and strangle the pestilent life out of her on the spot. Because it was then that I noticed the St Vincent's logo on her jumper. All this time I had assumed she was in the area seeking psychiatric help to control the psychotic ways of her mind, and here she is a fucking nurse! Helping people!

The concept that I might have to be grateful to Spoonwoman is more than I can bear.

True Nature

A recent incident reminded me that I may have mislead some people. In spite of my writing and occasional extrovert behaviour when in the company of close friends, I am actually your poster boy introvert. I wish it wasn't so, and apologies, but there you go. We are what we are.

A Moment Of Clarity In The Shitstorm Of My Mind

Here's a thing. Here's a random memory from my most drug fucked days - not the worst days of my life. The worst days probably happened then, but some of the best days happened too. Some of the most enduring friendships came from those days. Glad I made it through. I almost didn't. Really, I almost didn't make it. I'll tell you about it sometime.

But here's a memory from those days. A new friend. We're out. We're out and we're fucked up in the most wonderful way. I don't really know this person but I like her. I don't remember where we were or where we were going or what was going to happen next. I don't really remember very much about that night at all, except that we were enjoying each others company, this new friend and me.

She made a joke about being transgender, transexual, something like that. And in my fucked up state of fucked-upness, I noticed her broad shoulders, her height, her big hands, her square jawline. In the calm backwaters of my fucked-up mind, a question: shit- is she a dude?

I was in a state. Remember this. I wasn't sober. I was a long way from sober. I started realising that I didn't have a clue about anything.

And looking at her, this new friend, I didn't care. It's too late, I thought. It doesn't matter because I already like you. I absolutely want you to be my friend for a very long time, whatever the deal is.

And a very long time later I'm happy to say we are the very best of friends. She is married now to a lovely and cool guy, and they have kids, this tall, broad shouldered, large handed and beautiful, caring, intelligent woman and her husband.

So there. There's a thing. A beautiful memory from my drug-fucked days.

Currently Reading Medium Raw By Anthony Bourdain

"As I looked around the beach, I saw in the jaundiced light of my unhappiness, the full extent of the horror of this Island of Dr. Moreau I'd willingly marooned myself on. The full spectrum of plastic surgeries gone wrong - right there in the open, curiosities of the flesh, which at a lesser income level would have been confined to the carnival sideshow: mouths that pulled to the side, lips plumped beyond credibility, cheeks filled with golf ball-like lumps, and foreheads frozen so tight you could play a snare drum on them. Identical noses... eyes that refused to blink and could barely even close...
   And there was my date for the night, in her thousand dollar plain white T shirt. Searching - once again - for her cell phone."

I think I would like to hang out with Anthony Bourdain.

A Day In The Office

It's a good thing you can't see me from the front here - my tongue would be poking out as I try carefully to spoon just the right amount of Nescafe instant into each cup.

Nyuk nyuk nyuk.

This is me being a bit slammed on the coffee machine. Someone came in with a take-away order for 11 coffees, then, naturally, several other customers came in at the same time with multiple coffee orders. We ran out of space along the bench and had to stack the other lids in clusters wherever we could find space. Early on, this kind of thing would make me break out in a sweat of nerves and my hands would shake. These days, I love it. It's a puzzle, it's a game. Hannah, my helper, wrote the orders on the lids. I then got her to cluster the same types of milk together. I did all the shots, steamed the first of the milk and handed the jug to Hannah to pour and finish, by which time I had steamed the next jug to silky perfection. I merged smaller orders in with the big order so that those customers didn't have to wait right until the end of the big order. It's a small thing, but its a buzz. Being busy is a buzz.

And yes, I currently have a stripe of green hair on my shaved head. And those pants? Made by a talented friend, Sharron at Leafy Sea Dragons. I get plenty of comments on them and yeah, can see why. They're pretty cool.

Felt a bit tired by the end of the week. Was a pretty busy one. Expected yesterday to be quiet because of the long weekend but we got slammed. Busiest day of the week. 50 hours plus on our feet each week, running at times... it's exhausting.

Lots happening at the moment. We seem to be going through another busy period. We haven't done anything to promote the cafe so it's all word of mouth, the most honest kind of promotion. Although we did have a band record their music video clip in the cafe recently. Papa G & The Starcats. We'll get credit in the clip (for their song Smooth Lovin') and post a link here when it's out.

And we're off to the album launch of a former employee tonight. I used to love working with Alyx. Now I just have to be content with loving her music, which I do very much.

First theatre opening night in a while coming up on Tuesday, and I have a feeling  (because there's no rest for these weary bones) that we're going to a doof bright and early tomorrow morning. Just to go hard for the day and into the night, drive back on Monday.

Spoonwaoman V Squinchwoman

Dear Diary,
Spoonwoman has been mercifully not present lately. Sometimes I think I see the spectre of here there in the middle distance, only to realise that it's the reflection of a traumatic memory in the window of my mind. She haunts me. Currently there is no sign of her or her hellish torment, but I have no doubt she will return to torment me hellishly. This is Spoonwoman's raison d'etre.

To less sad tidings... a customer. Pretty, yes. French, ye... oui. We had an encount... a rendezvous which involved human interaction and currency exchange. A croissant and a baguette and a drop of youthful beaujolais. Then again, this is my delusional memory we are dealing with here, so perhaps it was a ham, cheese and tomato toasty and a bottle of coke. I really can't recall, because I was distracted. And the source of my distraction, Dear Diary? Well.

As she turned to leave she... this mademoiselle... did the most curious thing. She smiled, thanked me (merci, she said, merci beucoup), then kind of squinched both eyes shut. Fleetingly. Simultaneously. She performed what can only be described as a French Fleeting Simultaneous Eye Squinch.
And left. Without so much as an au revoir.

That eye squinch, it will haunt me. What did it mean? And if I should dream about Mademoiselle Squinch and Spoonwoman, what will happen?

As I go now into the frontier of the unconscious and enter the realm of sleep, I am nervous. For I have eaten rather a lot of cheese, and shit could get weird.

Pray for me, Dear Diary, and please come rescue me if I call your name. Especially if I am squealing things like "Get off me Spoonwoman it's horrible it's horrible!"

Until next time,

Yours,

Me.

13 Years Of Big Like

I'm kind of a solitary soul, but the friends who get in there usually turn out to be pretty special, even if they did crash into my life in unexpected ways.

This is Chloe who crashed into my life 13 years ago. We bumped into each other in a nightclub. I'm a little bit in awe of her. I love that we are such good friends after all these years, after such a potentially fleeting encounter.

In The White Room

In The White Room

In the white room
He opens the curtains
Outside, there is a garden.
It's a garden of stories
Stories of growth and dying.
The stories are secret stories
Secret stories of people
To be shared with people
Who will never really know these stories.
There is the story of Sarah.
There is the story of Chloe
There is the story Rachael who would never
Let him call her by her name.
There is the story of Kat
And the story of Christine and
The story of Nadia
And the story of Ann
The long and wonderful story of Ann.
Out there in the garden of growth and dying
Is the story of Them,
Their long history of adventures and quarrels
The story of her strength and his weakness
Their epic story of them.
He closes the curtains in this white room,
This blinding white room
With its electric white roar,
And blindly smiles his lonely smile.

The Spoonwoman Chronicles Part 2

So Spoonwoman - or as I like to call her, Fucking Spoonwoman - comes into the cafe today. She pays for yesterday's coffee, apologises for not paying for it yesterday like she said she was going to, AND she thanks me. Like, WTF? What the hell is she up to? What twisted mind game is she playing? She's supposed to be evil, not civil. Bitch is doing my head in.

The Spoonwoman Chronicles

Fucking Spoonwoman... she ordered coffee and then found she didn't have any cash in her purse. She asked if she could pay for her coffee later when she was on her 3pm break. I snarlingly, grudgingly said yeah sure, Spoonwoman.

Then she didn't show up at 3pm.

Spoonwoman and me, next time we meet, it's going to be apocalyptic.

Loop. The Boy And The Man. A Short Story.

A boy sits in a park away from the other children who are playing a game with a ball. He watches blankly as they run madly about, laughing at their own antics. A man walks by, not old, but old in the eyes of the boy. He stops and also watches the game for a few moments before turning his attention to the boy.

“What’s the matter, boy? Why don’t you play with the other children?”

Boy shrugs.

“You look sad. You’re too young to be sad.”

Boy shrugs again. “I am sad.”

Man sits down next to the boy and together they look on at the children and the ball and the rules they all must follow.

“Why sad? Open up. Find the words. Tell me about your sadness.”

Boy thinks for a long time while the old man waits patiently.

“It’s not sad, really, it’s just not happy. Not right? Something feels not right.”

“You don’t fit in? You’re not like the others.”

“That’s it. And I want to be like the others. I like the way they are. I like how they laugh and how they know things and how they are so good at... um... they’re all so different. It’s like someone told them who to be, and so they know. I think I wasn’t listening when they told me who to be.”

“You daydream.”

“Yes.” Boy squirms a little.

“To escape.”

“I don’t know. It just happens. I get into trouble for it. I get into trouble for a lot of things.”

“I see. What do you daydream about?”

“Don’t know. Different things. Happy things. Sad things. Collecting words that feel the same. I don’t know.”

Old man smiles at this. “You’ve started, you just don’t know it yet.”

Boy looks at the man. “Started what?”

“Your journey.”

Boy shakes his head a little. “But I’m stuck here in this place. Trapped in this house I don’t like with a family that just isn’t right. I’m not going anywhere. At least not to anywhere you’d bother going to.”

“Don’t be so glum. You have a happy heart, you just don’t know it yet.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know things.”

“What things do you know?”

“Oh... I know the kind of things that make a young boy sad. I know about his daydreams and his longing. I know that lost feeling and that sense of not belonging.”

Boy is staring at the man now, seeing things in his eyes. “You look sad, old man, but happy at the same time. How can you be sad and happy at the same time?”

“They go hand in hand. Can’t have one without the other. Let me tell you something, since you weren’t listening when they told you who to be. Are you listening?”

Boy nods.

“You will feel this way for a very long time. You will be confused and quite alone. Your quiet nature will be misinterpreted in a number of ways. Your journey will take you to unexpected places and you will feel at times that if it doesn’t get any better there is simply no point. But at those times you must remember to keep going. Keep going even though you cannot see the resting place you are looking for. Understand?”

“But why? Why keep going if there’s no happiness.”

“Because things will change. Things will happen one by one. Good things. Good people. Love and laughter and music... these three things will come to define you. Not at once, but slowly, slowly. You will collect words that will make people laugh and make them cry. You will drink in the music and be awed by it. You will meet famous musicians and others not so famous who will become friends. You will do things you can’t imagine right now, things that, as an old man, will cause you to smile a sad smile as you look back and see how it all turned out after all.”

Boy thinks about this. His hands are under his thighs and his legs kick back and forth.

“Will there be a person for me. You know...”

Old man tips his head back briefly. “Ah yes. You are blessed that way. You will have love from a truly lovely being. But don’t ever take her for granted. You will take her for granted but try not to. And friends. You will have golden friends.

“Okay. That is a thing to look forward to.”

“Indeed. Indeed it is a thing to look forward to. And don’t hurt her. You will hurt her, but try not to hurt her.”

Boy is silent. He can’t imagine this. He can’t imagine anything so good as his own special person. Someone he loves. Someone who loves him.

A long silence as though nothing more needs to be said. Boy frowns. Old man stands and adjusts his collar. Time to go.

“Old man?”

“Yes, boy?”

“How do you know these things?

Old man turns and winks and climbs onto his zebra. He turns and dips his hat and chuckles to himself as he trots off into the sunset.

"Yeehaw!"

Crack of whip.

*

A man walks through a park. He sees a group of children playing soccer. He smiles and recalls a memory. He sees a boy sitting alone and recognises something about him.

“What’s the matter, boy? Why don’t you play with the other children?”

Flashback - Godless by The Dandy Warhols

Just because I had forgotten just how much I loved their album 13 Tales Of Urban Bohemia. Which was (and is again) a lot. A LOT.

What Happens?

What happens
When the funny stops,
When the happy stops,
When the hoping stops,
When you realise that The Vibe was wrong,
And you can/t evvbe>n use
Your keyborad prpp;ly?

Blerk.

I want to know the answer
To this shitly worded
And quite possibly
poorly constructed
question of the thing:
What happens?

Actually, forget it.
I don't care.
I really don't care.
I truly don't care.
I honestly don't care.

I just don't care.

The Dummy Spit

On the flight home on the weekend I settled in to read my book, Nick Cave's The Death Of Bunny Munro. There was a little kid across the aisle, a squirmer and a squealer. Awesome. At one point he literally spat his dummy across the aisle and it landed in my open book. The kid fell silent and looked impressed and shocked and a little bit frightened. His mother looked horrified and apologised like she thought I was going to get violent. I was just amused. Ain't never had a kid spit its dummy from a distance into the pages of a twisted novel I was reading.

Immortalised In Fiction

This from American musician and author Beth Patterson: "Two short stories are getting released a day apart from each other! This anthology contains my short story Tubular Hells. It takes place in Australia...it even mentions some of my favorite spots, such as the Rails, the Maldon Folk Festival, and Grumpy & The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome."

That's a little bit cool.

Tindersticks - Show Me Everything

After lunch service at the cafe I switch to more guitar driven, brooding songs. It's my place, my time of the day. Sometimes I even sing out loud to some Nick Cave or Tom Waits. Every now and again a songs makes me stop the glamorous tasks of cleaning and tidying and go Huh? How good is this?

This was one such song. Love it when old songs are new to your ears.

3:10 To Humour, Rich Hall Review April 2015

Rich Hall – 3:10 To Humour

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose



I don't know about the title of this show – I really don't – but it feels like some numpty somewhere involved in making a world class comedy festival insisted that Rich Hall give his show a name, when in fact the show could have just as easily have been called “Rich Hall”. And I can kind of hear Rich saying something like, “Oh for fuck sake you Goddamn marketing numpty – why does my show need a name? Why do I need some stupid label? Tins of baked beans need labels – am I a tin of Goddamned motherfucking baked beans? Okay. Okay. How about... I dunno – 3:10 To Humour? That okay with you, you piece of shit marketing numpty?” Sure, it could be a pun on some obscure 1950s short story set in the wild west, but even so its relevance to the show's content eludes me.

Rich Hall is one of those comedy acts that really doesn't need to be labelled. He's Rich Hall, and that's that. And he's just about the funniest guy you're likely to see on stage so basically just buy a ticket and know that you will laugh your arse off. I'm a reviewer and I'm going to spend some of my own cash to see the show again, and I think that's a bigger endorsement than any shitty little five star deal.

Rich gives himself an off-stage introduction, then wanders on-stage looking like he just woke up 10 minutes ago and really couldn't care less. He tells us he is glad to be back in Melbourne and gets on with some of his observations of the differences between Australians and Americans. In politics, it seems, the concept of a coalition is head-bending to Americans. And maybe he has a point – just look at the coalition of shoe repairers and key cutters. I for one had never considered how odd this coupling was, but now that this outsider had pointed it out, why shoe repairs and key-cutting?

For some reason – something to do with the various Bush politicians being exactly the same - the comedian needed to do an impressively awful impersonation of one of the impressively awful Baldwin brothers which lead to Hall wandering slouch-shouldered off stage and into the audience to heckle himself. Back up on stage he did another of the Baldwin brothers (pretty much the same as the first), to come back down into the audience to harangue himself with even harsher abuse. This turned into him being an imaginary audience member heckling the heckler... you've got to love a valid point wrapped up in warped silliness.

And he is very good at verbal abuse, too. His banter with audience members frequently involves comically vehement insults which he totally dead-pans to hilarious effect. On this night he did an admirable job of not turning his ability to insult on a couple of particularly annoying “hecklers”. (I rabbit-ear the word hecklers because it was the lamest version of heckling ever. Drunk idiots incapable of stringing a sentence together, they shouted idiotic monosyllabic grunts far too frequently throughout the show). Where most of the audience were on the verge of telling these incoherent retards incapable of handling their booze to STFU, Hall engaged somewhat and even made one the star of an improv song, showing that this gruff, thunderous looking personification of a hangover has a degree of finesse about him.

The music is a lot of fun. He talks with someone in the audience and builds an improv song out of the snippets of their life he has extracted from them. It's clever and funny when it works, and just plain funny when he struggles to make it work.

The highlight of the show for me was his ode to Bob Dylan, Bob Dylan Is Getting Back Together. I hadn't heard it or heard of it before and as a result it was kind of... astonishing. I won't spoil it here by describing it, but it is one of the funniest things I've seen. The build up to it is perfect and... I really want to describe it here but will resist.

The bit when the harmonica blares out klaxon-like... no. I really must resist. Just go see it. This piece is almost the sole reason for me going back for more.

But outside of the songs, he has more stories and they are just priceless. As well as the observational stuff (politics, marriage, America's idiotic love affair with guns... lots of stuff with a message as well as just being funny), he has been the guest on many, many television shows and has a vast store of anecdotes to draw upon. His experience with the little guy on car show Top Gear is brilliant.

In short, I think a certain reviewer has a bit of a man crush on a certain dishevelled comedian and he is looking forward to their next date.

The Younger Women

There is always a younger woman.
You become her friend,
Her confidante,
No really, her very special friend.

I like that you have these occasional encounters,
And I like that Solitary-You finds happiness
In the company of other people
When you claim to not like people.

I like that there is love,
Platonic yet deep and friendly love.
I like seeing the happiness they give you
And the happiness you give to them.

But do you ever wonder,
Ever
How you would feel
If there was a younger man?

Late Night Musings

Another thought that keeps me up late at night... "I wonder if I am upsetting something in the order of life and the universe by using a Schick razor and Gillette shaving gel at the same time..."

Norman Gunston Interview With Sally Struthers... Inspirational.

As a serious student of the celebrity interview, this has always been my favourite. Just saw it again on a comedy doco after a million years, and I still love it so much that tears got in my eyes. I fucking love this.

Missing In Adventure

Good Lord that felt like a long four days off. Funny that only one of those days didn't involve doing some time in the cafe. Still, caught up with old friends and today chatted with another friend overseas and really appreciated the voice contact. Sometimes I think friends I haven't heard from for a while are just characters in stories I've made up. Hearing their voice, it's reassuring to realise that no, they are very real and very much loved and missed... they are just out there somewhere having adventures.

JubiLee Street... Because It Has Lee in it, innit.

This song fascinates me. The whole album Push The Sky Away... It's my favourite Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds album. I told The Dreaded One this yesterday. She told me that I already told her this yesterday. I told her yes I know, but it's even more favourite today than it was yesterday

The Broken Thing And The Kiss.

It's drunk, and you're late, but she still kisses you on the mouth in that late drunk way, and you think maybe the thing, that special thing, maybe that thing isn't broken after all.

Teaching = Sharing The Knowledge.

Dear All The Worst Teachers I've Ever Had,

You taught me how to be a good teacher.

Thank you.

The Broken Thing

It's a sad day when you realise
That that golden thing
That fragile thing
That amazing thing
That reliable thing
That thing you had
That forever thing

Is broken.

Ask No Question Of The Moth

Every now and then you hear a quote that speaks to you. This, for me, is one such quote:

"I have no news of my coming or passing away - the whole thing happened quicker than a breath; ask no question of the moth."

Farid al-Din Attar, courtesy of the wonderfully hilarious human, Judith Lucy, who I one day hope to hug. She is a warm and honest and very funny moth indeed.

Review of her show coming tomorrow.

Tough As Chuck

Me: OUCH!
Her: What happened?
Me: Zipper pinched me on my... manhood.
Her: Ow. You all right?
Me: Yeah, I'm fine. Bit worried about the zipper though.

Surround Me

First time I've heard the original version of this gorgeous song. Have only heard the something overdrive remix. This is beautiful songing. And yes I meant to write songing.

Been a day of music today. I really listened to Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds' Push The Sky Away for the first time today. It's a favourite album. The guy is a master song writer, story teller, singer and musician. All things considered, Surround Me by 3-11 Porter is probably shit in that it's their one and only hit, and Nick Cave has hundreds of beautiful songs and hits, but I still like it.

Been too busy to write much lately, but things are good. Another traveler co-worker left after too short a time and I was a bit unhappy about it. She was wonderful to work with, so very kind and gentle and intelligent, and her presence brought these qualities out in me, I think. Surround yourself with the kind of people you want to be, and you'll become that person. Fleur will be missed in the workplace, but unless I am badly mistaken, I think I have another friend.

It's sometimes easy to forget, but one of our motivations when starting the cafe was to make a place where we are all happy to come to. Both The Dreaded One and I had some bad experiences with employers and wanted to make sure that our workers didn't move on and feel the way we did about our bad employers. I think it's just about liking the people you choose and respecting them for who they are and what they do.

I think that they have all gone on to become friends who stay in touch after they leave, or who initiate after work drinks with us or social meets on the weekends... I think we're doing all right.

Surround yourself with good people. It's a beautiful thing.

Let Love Win

So much beauty it hurts. Hearing this, having seen these guys play live on the weekend, knowing the evil that is going on right now in the world... ergh. Headfuck.

I hope beauty and love prevails.

First World Problems? Moi?

Some aspects of this tale might come across as what some of you like to label "First World Problems" ... judgmental fuckers that you are.

So, like, I came back from an absolutely awesome dance festival feeling in absolute agony. Muscles so sore from sooo much dancing to soooo much good music. The soreness of my leg muscles triggered memories of happiness, which was horrible because my face muscles were also aching from all the smiling and laughter that had taken place over this treacherously Bacchanalian weekend.

Working in my cafe, I'd kind of hoped to ease into this short three day week after four days off, but noooooo... all of our regulars who made do with some other cafe the day before ALL came back for breakfast and coffee and then lunch as well and we got properly spanked. Jesus. It was relentless. And they told us things like how they missed us and that they were glad we were open again and I think this was their passive aggressive way of saying they think we should never close again because they like our breakfast and coffee and food so much.

Fuckers.

As if all that wasn't bad enough, I broke out in a sweat when I heard London Grammar on the radio... no doubt the torment of London Grammar cancelling their previous Melbourne gig (simply because I got all OMG OMG OMG!!! excited about them) burns in your mind, so you can possibly almost imagine the utter, utter, utter, utter, utter anguish that squished me when I suddenly wondered if perhaps their re-scheduled gig was tonight. WHAT IF LONDON GRAMMAR ARE PLAYING TONIGHT???!!! I CAN'T POSSIBLY SEE LONDON GRAMMAR TONIGHT BECAUSE OF THE SPANK AND THE SORE OF THE MUSCLES AND THE FACE-ACHE FROM SMILING AND LAUGHING AND DANCING AT AN AMAZING DANCE FESTIVAL!!! FUCK!!!

I have never - NEVER - been through such a traumatic episode in my entire life.

The only good that came out of this is that - and you are going to be so relieved to hear this - London Grammar are not playing until Saturday night. Oh what a happy ending to this nightmare of a day.

When You Have Those Memories That Make You Smile

Sitting in the Gasometer pub at the end of Smith Street, alone with my thoughts and an after-work pint of beer for company, I remembered another time in another pub. I think it was The Clock on Crown Street, Surry Hills. Sitting up there on the balcony  in full Sydney sunshine, I wasn't alone. I was with my beautiful friend Christine. What a luxury - afternoon sunshine, beer and a beautiful friend.

I remember being in a funny mood. As relaxed as I get with my closest friends. The very shy Funny Lee sometimes emerges. On this day, I was being a claws out fashionista bitch commentator on all the Crown Street fashion victims passing by. At one point during my commentary I thought Christine was being a bit quiet.

I looked sideways and saw that she was doubled over, almost crying in silent laughter at my silliness. A beautiful human, a beautiful moment, a beautiful memory.

And sitting in the Gasometer pub at the end of Smith Street, alone with my thoughts and a pint of after-work beer for company, I realised that I was smiling my head off at the memory.

Beautiful Strangers

I wanted to write something beautiful today
I wanted to write about the beautiful strangers
Who become friends
I wanted to write about the broken-getting-to-know yous in the work place,
And the eventual and lasting getting-to-know yous.

I wanted to come up with some poetic way
Of expressing my gratitude for recent and treasured encounters
(Without getting actual poetic because I am an actual shit poet)
Because my heart has been melted many times
By the kind hearts of these beautiful strangers.

I wanted to write something nice today
About these beautiful strangers
Who have enriched my life and have made me happy
With their honest individuality.

I wanted to write something beautiful today
But I was too busy.

Random Strangers

Sometimes strangers come along and they become a part of your life. And it's a beautiful thing.

Enjoy The Music While You Can

I saw Zoe years ago at a gig with Amanda Palmer and Meow Meow. Says a lot that I'd never heard of the cellist but that she stood out between such limelight personalities. I love the cello - it does wonderful things with your emotions. I loved what I was seeing someone do with the instrument. It was mesmerising. I loved seeing how absorbed by her music Zoe was. You can see it in this clip. She is obviously a passionate person.

Today she lost her partner of 17 years. The news made me incredibly sad because I had been hoping everything would be all right, but kind of thinking everything was probably not going to be all right.

Much love goes out to this beautiful soul.

Awesome Pants

Yesterday at a restaurant at Brighton beach, just as we were leaving, a young waiter dude came over to me and said, "Man - sorry but can I just ask where you got those pants? They're awesome." I told him that I got them at Rainbow, and this started a very, very, very enthusiastic conversation about festivals, Maitreya, psytrance and just how much the young guy loves psytrance and and and...

I think he'd probably had a pretty good night the night before. I didn't think he would be quite so enthusiastic later in his shift. I also thought it was pretty funny that he was having this kind of conversation with someone literally old enough to be his father.

I also recognised a kindred spirit and told him to feel free to drop into the cafe some time and we can talk some more about all things doof.

Was kind of cool meeting someone new to the scene who loves it so much.

An Unexpected Poop Of Happiness.

An Unexpected Poop Of Happiness

If your life has been like mine, you do a lot of different things. You are a lot of different people with lots of different interests. Maybe you are several different people to different people. I've never known who the fuck I am and have always craved some sort of consistency. But that consistency has never been there.

Right now I'm the co-owner of a small and banged up little cafe on a cool street in Melbourne, hands-down the coolest city in Australia. We do good, unpretentious food and good, unpretentious coffee, all served by - I hope - good, unpretentious staff. I'm enjoying my work life right now. Lately, especially, I've been humbled by the good workers I've managed to find. Properly awesome people.

But 10 years and little bit more ago, this was not what I was doing or who I was. 10 years ago I was bumbling my way through a steep learning curve of magazine editorship and writing, and starting to realise that my sense of humour was worth putting out there. I didn't really know what I was doing, but I did enjoy being in this rare position of writing stuff that amused me and putting it out there, and I enjoyed the limited feedback from friends and occasionally strangers who told me that they enjoyed my writing/humour. Most of my working days were spent writing stuff that I knew amused me, sometimes found out amused the rest of the office, and rare occasions found out amused anonymous civilians.

But I did get feedback. And it's cool and nice to get positive feedback. The random text saying I've just made a twat of myself laughing at your latest column. Or talking to a new friend who, upon finding out which magazine I worked for, asked if I knew Grumpy.

And I got to say yeah... I am Grumpy.

Another friend recently said dude, always loved your writing - it was always the first thing I read in the magazine. Hearing this is weird because I didn't know this last friend at the time I was doing this writing.

But all of that is history. 10 years later I'm still Grumpy, partner of The Dreaded One in Grumpy & The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome. The many years of my Grumpy column appearing in the pages of Tsunami mag have long ended. I make coffee now. I enjoy hospitality. I care about service and gathering a team that makes working together a pleasure. I'm not perfect on this last part, but I'm working on it and I'm getting better.

Yesterday... I get a message from the partner of a kind of oldish friend. He says that his girlfriend has mentioned that I used to write for a mag in Sydney - which one was it and what was the name of my column? I tell him about 3D World, about Acid Tongue, about Grumpy and my other writings, thinking he is maybe a writer thinking I might still have contacts, which I don't. I'm so out of the loop these days.

Turns out he was just curious. Had thought about the name of the cafe, the fact that I used to write and maybe I was a writer whose stuff he used to read. Things fell into place and his reply was something along the lines of... no fuck it I'll copy and paste... "I fuckin knew it, used to love that column. Thats why i asked.You sir are the man."

This was a little, unexpected poop of happiness. Made me wonder how many complete strangers out there enjoyed the thing and were made happy by my idiotic musings.

Now awaiting the PS: "Sorry man - I was thinking about another column written by another dude. You're probably okay, but you're not the man. Soz."

Random People And Hearts Of Gold

Although I said I wasn't going to do it again, I did it again. I chose one single potential worker from the pile of resumes dropped off based on the resume itself and The Vibe.

The Vibe, it seems, fucking rocks.

While I doubt I will ever get another front-of-house cohort as perfect as the divine Miss D, this one is quite lovely and did something today that says wonderful things about her character and has made a big impression.

We had some roadworks going on right outside the front door of the cafe and the day got off to a really slow start. Not a single customer for the first hour. Not good. A few regulars came by after that, commenting on the jackhammers and barricades.

At about 9.15 I texted Clara, our new helper of four days, and said if she wanted the day off she could have it because I think it's going to be quiet. She has made it clear that she wants some work but wants time off wherever possible to enjoy our fine city, being the traveler that she is. I really thought it was going to be a three person day today. She replied that yeah sure, if that's okay with you.

It started getting a little busy, and the roadworks situation quietened a little. They basically finished the heavy digging and left for the day. I pooped my pants a little because what if we had a busy lunch and we need four people? Goodcall?Badcall?nnnnng!!!

This is the bit that impressed. During a gap in the customer traffic, I texted Clare and said look actually it could get busy during lunch and would it be okay if you came in after all?

Most people would have switched to oh-cool-unexpected-day-off mode and said sorry, I've just made plans. I think that's what I would have done, unless this was someone I had been working for for a long time.

Her reply? "I was going to go to the beach but you guys are my priority, so if you think it's going to be busy I'll come in. I don't mind."

She came in. She was cool about it. Then we got properly fucking slammed. And she was still cool about it. I was in a happy mood because it had been a close call... and what a gesture from someone we've only had on board for a few days.

Very glad my arse was saved again. Mostly, though, impressed by the kind of person who does something like that.

The Chicken That Wasn't There.

This a story about the chicken that wasn't there.


I was looking forward to a left-over chicken snack, but, astonishingly, there was no chicken. Apparently I had already eaten the chicken, perhaps during one of my late night, gastronomic somnambulations. I don't remember eating the chicken, but all the evidence indicated that I had already eaten all the chicken. This was very confusing because I have no recollection of eating the chicken.

There was sadness, too, because I was really, really looking forward to eating some chicken.

Alas, the chicken wasn't there.

And that's my romantic tragedy - perhaps the greatest romantic tragedy ever told involving chicken -  titled The Chicken That Wasn't There.