Acid Tongue, 3D World Issue 998

Funny that I'm still writing for 3D after leaving as music ed/staff writer about... erm... was it four years ago? Bloody hell.

Anyway, I got an email from the new 3D editor saying that the arts editor of Drum (formerly of 3D) passed my name on for Acid Tongue columns and another column called Underside. Effectively the same thing, which is pretty much the same kind of stuff I write in my Grumpy column for Tsunami.

I think I have to be quite flattered that each magazine has had several changes of editor and I'm still writing for both. 3D was a bit stop-starty after Turkey but hopefully now that Drum owns 3D there will be no more problems. I do like writing this kind of silly shit. This one was a result of a conversation I had with good friend Chloe, me giggling here in Australia as I wrote the Viking bits, her pissing herself laughing in New Zealand as she read what I was writing. Fun stuff.

And yeah, Like The Dreaded One said, it's old school. Think I have to stop writing about Vikings and Penguins.

TGF

GRUMPY

Lying in bed wondering what the next Grumpy column is going to be about. It's late at night and I'm shagged after a two week road trip down to Rainbow Serpent and back. Surely something happened in that four day orgy of dancing and silliness that will do, but so far nothing has TGF (aka, The Grumpy Factor). My mind is kind of whooshing and wobbling deliriously. Dogs? Done it. Bra Pee? Done it. Farts and orgasms? Did it twice, and two columns out of that one unfortunate incident was already pushing TGF to the max. What the hell am I going to write about?

The phone rings. It's bedside waiting for 4.30am to play its role as my alarm. First day back at work in a few short hours. I look at the phone. Kid sister who's extended her road trip from Victoria to Queensland, currently around the Byron area. It's so late it could be important. I take the phone out into the loungeroom so as not to wake the girlfriend. What follows is a conversation spoken in hushed tones on both ends. Seems kid sis and her boy were doing some late night Nimbin-type business and things got a bit tense. She didn't want to elaborate on the phone but some guy in the street they were making a purchase from (I don't know – fruit and veg or something?) got a little jittery and that made them jittery. They scarpered out of town quick smart in their rental car and were currently trying to sleep in the car on a little suburban laneway. They were both quietly freaking out a little bit. I'm sure she used the phrase “zombie hillbilly hippies”, which is not a phrase you tend to hear all that often these days. Currently the boyfriend – having had enough of trying to sleep inside the car – was cocooned in his sleeping bag on the laneway's grassy verge while she sat inside the locked car keeping a watch-out for the aforementioned zombie hibillly hippies. The murmured conversation came to a halt with a scream when he scared the shit out of her by tapping on the window and asking from the depths of his hooded sleeping bag if he could get back inside the car please because ground creatures appeared to be crawling all over him. Either there really were ground creatures crawling over him or they sold very interesting fruit and veg in Nimbin.

I go back to bed. I try not to think about the fact that I only have about four hours before I have to get up. I also try not to think about zommbie hillbilly hippies.

Pretty soon the security door gives a brief burst of it's unique hellish buzz. It's not the kind of buzz a real visitor with intentions of actual visting uses. Too brief. A mistake, I hope optimistically. I close my eyes. The buzzer goes again. Half a second of buzz, no more. Then another, slightly longer one. Is someone Morse coding on my buzzer on the wrong side of midnight? The fuck is going on?

The buzzing gets braver. More insistent. I have three friends staying at the moment, so even my fatigued brain figures out that someone went out tonight and...

“So sorry – left the keys in my other bag...”

I let the two of them in. I tell them they are fucking idiots and give them goodnight hugs. I go to the bathroom and sit down on the loo, grinding my knuckles into my eyes. I hear a key go into the front door and figure guest number three has just arrived home, which is fine. A short time later the bathroom door swings wide open and guest number three walks fully into the white glare of the bathroom, me seated with my track pants around my ankles, which is not so fine. We are good friends but this is definitely entering unchartered waters of the friendship.

“Oh,” she says. “Hello. Didn't expect to see you in here.”

“Hello. I was just thinking the same thing. Do you need to use the, erm...”

“Not urgently.”

“I won't be long. And it's all right – I'm not doing number twos.”

“No? What are you doing then?”

“Not that either. That would be really awkward. I'm just doing a wee.”

“Really? You sit down to wee?”

“Not normally, but I just thought that with it being this late at night and me sharing the house with four women it would be wise for me to not run the risk of leaving the seat up. And actually, as it turns out, it's quite an ergonomical way of doing things. Quite comfy.”

“That's really considerate of you,” she smiles at me.

“Yes... and do you think we should finish this conversation outside?”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry.”

I make it back to bed but not quite to sleep, tormented for the few short hours I have left that absolutely nothing, it seems, has TGF at the moment.

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose, freelance writer. Contact him at twobluefish@bigpond.com

Bra Pee

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GRUMPY

I'm in Turkey for a week-long dance festival. There's going to be a total solar eclipse smack bang in the middle of it. It's all going to be a little bit awesome. Farthest I've ever traveled for a party and there's a light show you just wouldn't want to miss. I haven't been to this part of the world before, so I know for a fact that everyone's a dodgy fucker looking for a way to do you over. What do I do about that? I get in shape before I leave. I shave my head down to a five oçlock shadow and generally try to exude the air of someone it would be wise not to fuck with. It's a plan that works well. Walking through markets and down dark alleys, I play the theme from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly in my head. I assume dodgy fuckers everywhere can hear that theme song because no one fucks me over.

So I've got this Clint Eastwood thing going on, which is why it surprises me so much when I'm mistaken for another Hollywood hot-shot. And I must add here that modesty usually prevents me from telling this story. I'm really quite a modest person, so I find this a very hard story to tell.

I'm in the communal room of a pensione outside of Effes. I've been talking to a Canadian traveler. I'm chilling with my girlfriend at the time, sitting on a cushion with my back against a wall. When suddenly a couple of Japanese travelers comes crashing through the door. I do some menacing squint action because you never know – they could just be ninja assassins or something. We stare at each other across the room. I cue up the theme from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. It's a tense moment packed full of... um... tension.

Suddenly the Japanese girl points at me. I chew on my imaginary cigar and tighten my grip on my finger gun as the girl excitedly says, “Rook! Is bra pee!”

I give a WTF look at the others. They WTF back at me. I WTF the intruders. There's a whole bunch of WTF ricocheting about all over the place.

“Bra pee!” Ninja assassin chick accuses again.

“What did you just say to me?” I Clint back at her.

“I get camera. Oh my God. Bra pee!”

“Why do you keep saying bra pee at me?”

The Canadian seems amused by the whole thing as she says dryly from the back of the room, “She thinks you're Brad Pitt.”

The girlfriend looks at me like she's very amused and barely able to hold back hysterical laughter. I look at the girlfriend like aren't you the lucky one, Angelina. I also get a bit excited in my pants but the excitement goes flaccid when I realise that the ninja assassins must have dined on some of the most powerful hallucinogens known to mankind.

And, so, there you go. It's just one of those little stories that modesty forbids me from sharing with anyone else.

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose, freelance writer. Contact him at leebemrose666@gmail.com

New People

Oh funny. I accidentally came across this post from many months ago. The irony of me actually wondering if I should have met this online person in real life. And the irony of that tone of... it's kind of like I had accepted that that one meeting was going to be it and that I'm glad that at least it went well. I really thought I wouldn't be seeing her again and was so grateful that we got on in real life as well as we did online. Almost a year later and we've hung out many, many times in spite of the distance between us. Just made me laugh to think that after she went I really thought, that was that then. We'll be hanging out at another multi-day dance festival in just over a week and celebrating our birthdays together (her, I and The Dreaded One are in the same few days).

Same thing with this post, while I'm indulging in a little nostalgia. It now seems ludicrous that I actually wondered if this "new person" and I would stay in contact, given the many adventures like this one we've had since.

The Pitch, review

THE PITCH

There will be a couple of rare times during your life when you will be sitting in an audience being hugely entertained, laughing your arse off whilst simultaneously seething with with envy at the talent on display before you. Peter Houghton's The Pitch is one such occasion. What a talented bastard this guy is.

Written and performed by Peter Houghton, The Pitch follows a writer preparing to pitch his screenplay to a panel of Hollywood big-wigs. He's got most of the story down but needs an ending, but he's going to wing it and come up with something.

From the moment Houghton takes to the stage through to the end there is barely a moment to catch your breath. This is a frenetic performance. It's a dazzling comedic actor delivering a dazzling bit of writing. It's a parody of movie cliché that draws the audience into both the character's personal turmoil (it's unexpectedly moving at times) as well as the very cliches that pull us in to big screen entertainment. While your intellect sits there stroking its chin and admiring the writing and the acting and understanding that Houghton is making us laugh at the formulaic engine of movie-making as well as the fact that we actually love and need these very formulas, the innocent part of you will simply be laughing with sheer joy.

Good impersonations can be comedy gold, and Houghton delivers some wonderful ones including John Malkovich, Clint Eastwood, Robert DeNiro, Russel Crowe, Sean Connery, Stephen Fry, Sir John Geilgud and the sultry Katherine Zeta Jones who all star in this deconstructed block-buster.

But the appeal of this show doesn't rely on these very funny impersonations. They are merely tools. Very funny, clever tools weilded by a mechanic or a carpenter who... I'm fucking this metaphor up badly so I think I'll start a new paragraph.

Peter Houghton is an Australian actor, writer and director, but this compact play (less than 90 minutes, I think) has international appeal. Accents and parochial traits are dealt with as skillfully as the impersonations, and perhaps this is one of the secrets of the show's success: it's funny because it's true.

Not that many of us have pitched screenplays to Hollywood producers, but you recognise the truth of the situation. Somehow it's a universally-recognised situation in the same way that the four or five basic storylines presented in this play are recognised without us necessarily having to experience them. This is turning out to be another pretty rubbish paragraph so I'm going to start another one in which I'll try to round things up and convince you that you should just take my word for it and go and see this show.

There's a lot of really good stuff on offer with the Sydney festival, but this dynamic little show at one of Sydney's theatrical gems is going to be hard to beat. Spiegeltent schmeigeltent. Go to Darlo and see The Pitch. There will be a moment when you will realise that you are witnessing something very special. In fact, there will be many of those moments. Think Robin Williams at his peak. Think Umbilical Brothers. Think Mel Brooks' The Producers. Think... look, just take my word for it; you'd be a fool to miss this show. I'm going back for more and I don't think you can get a better recommendation than that.

The Pitch plays at Darlinghurst Theatre until January 30.

DOGS!

GRUMPY

Sitting at a doof, talking bollocks to a friend. Two dogs come thundering by, yapping at each other and generally just impossibly happy. But happy about what? Happy to be dogs. Doesn't matter what happens around them, they are dogs and they are bloody happy about that. Armageddon? Doesn't matter – we're dogs!

“But listen, dogs, it's God here and I have an offer for you. Being dogs must be fun and everything but it has its drawbacks too. Your body odour isn't always sensational, you have fleas to deal with, dog food, smelling each others bottoms all the time etc. If you could be another creature, what would it be?”

“Dogs!”

“No no no. You don't understand. I'm giving you the opportunity of being absolutely any other creature in the world. You name it, you're it.”

“DOGS! Fucking love being dogs!”

“Right... so not humans with their opposable thumbs and... and spoons and iPods and -”

“Nup – dogs mate. Just dogs. It's awesome being dogs. We totally love being dogs! Being Dogs is the best! Woooo!”

“But humans have the Internet and socks and... okay. Forget humans. Not my best work, just between you and me. They really lost me when they came up with that telemarketing sub-species. Urgh. But what about, I dunno, dolphins?”

“Dogs!”

“Meerkats? Meerkats are adorable.”

“Dogs!”

“You could be butterflies? Butterflies are beautiful.”

“No way! Dogs! Dogs dogs dogs!”

“Aw c'mon. It can't be that good. What about... imagine being a lion. King of the jungle...”

“Technically it's king of the savannah. And nup – DOGS! Yay dogs!”

“The savannah? Are you correcting me on this? Your creator?”

“You bet. Lions live in the savannah. Look it up. Faaaarck we like being dogs. Dogs totally rock!”

“This is ridiculous. Being dogs can't possibly be that good. What about... what about dragons?”

“DAWGS... dragons? You could do that? With the wings and the fire breathing?”

“Ha. Gotcha. Yes, I am God and I can make you anything, even dragons. Whaddaya say?”

“Naaah, dogs mate! We heart being dogs! Dogs forever!”

Sitting at a doof. More or less an actual conversation. It went on for quite some time but I think we'll leave it here.

Grumpy is Lee Bemrose, freelance writer. Contact him at twobluefish@bigpond.com

New Psycle, New Year, New Pants

Hello and welcome to 2010. Wonder what this year will be like. For me, it's already off to a better start than the last couple of years.

Christmas day was fun. Had a couple of friends around for turkey, wine and nonsense. The day is a bit of a blur now but it was a lot of fun. The moment I remember most clearly was when I decided that it would be an awesome idea to light the entire box of sparklers at once rather than going through the packet one at a time. I was half joking when I made the suggestion but a friend, Lizzie, whipped her lighter out so damn fast I knew there was no going back. I'm not sure what I was expecting but what I got was a hand-held solar flare. It was blindingly bright and really quite hot. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to take the sparklers out onto the balcony. Unfortunately our inflatable wading pool is also out on the balcony... was out on the balcony.

We managed to get a late night soak in the pool before it completely deflated. The Dreaded One was a bit pissed that not only did I break the pool but I also used up all the sparklers in a nanosecond AND she didn't even see it all happen.

Anyway, much merriment was had with the last of our guests leaving at about 5am. It was then that we realised how loud the music had been. Boxing Day was very sleepy.

Filled in the next few days hanging out with my spiritual kid sister. Had lots of laughs, played tennis and a fun game called Connect 4. I think I've got the tennis bug again... except that both of us got pretty sunburned and my knee is doing weird things, which could be a result of stomping at the New Year's dooof or when I took a pretty hard fall on the rocks on the dry river bed.

Ah, the doof. The directions I printed out were next to useless but we found our way there anyway. We've been to the site twice before but it was stilll difficult to remember details. We were greeted at one of the inner gates by the owner of the property who knew the rain was going to make the roads tricky when leaving and had spent all day laying hay in the muddier sections. He was covered in mud and gave the car a glance (family station wagon and not the 4 wheel drive we should have been driving) and said, "You're all totally fuckin' mad. I hope in fuckin'rains and yers get stuck her for a fuckin' week. Look at me, eh? Covered in shit... looks like I've been sleepin'with the fuckin' pigs, eh?" Lloyd is actually a really nice guy (who believes his property is inhabited by yetis and frequently visited by UFOs).

There were a lot of good friends at the party. The music leading up to midnight was pretty diabolical - a puffed up MC and dub step and drum n bass... yes yes my loathing of both styles of music is well acknowledged but it wasn't just me. The dancefloor was devoid of energy with a handful of stragglers wandering around wondering what the hell was going on. The MC was probably fine and in another time and place with another crowd the music might have gone down well but it was not what this particular crowd wanted. Proof was when they did the countdown to midnight and the psytrance came on the dancefloor was instantly rammed and jumping. Insto-energy. Suddenly, musically, everyone was having a great time.

Oh - back track a few hours. After setting up our tents by the river I sat down with my friend from Chicago. We met accidentally online and here were, somehow, sitting in the Australian bush having a beer. I just never thought it would happen. Hadn't considered it a possibility. I said words to that effect and it was a nice moment. Then a couple of dogs came thundering by over the moon with happiness at being dogs. It set me off on an imaginary dialogue about dogs being given the opportunity of being any other creatures but they just wanted to be dogs. DOGS! Ann later said she could hear my friend's resulting laughter off in the bush... a nice moment made nicer with laughter. (The dog thing willl be the subject of a Grumpy column, I feel).

Dancing in light rain all weekend. Various levels of intoxication. Couple of moments of drama that weren't needed but were unavoidable. Many hugs and a lingering appreciation of having good friends close by, friends who don't think twice about hugging you and voicing their feelings for you at random moments.

I had two wardobe malfunctions - I ripped the arse out of two pairs of pants in exactly the same place. Excellent work. Especially given that on one occasion I was going commando. Apologies to the beautiful warm and fuzzy friends who saw my fuzzy arse cheek.

The drive out was an hilarious adventure. Come back later for that one.

Meantime, hope you've had as good a start to the year as I have. Counting down the days to Rainbow Serpent. Hope 2010 is a good one.

And At That Moment Everything Changed, A Review

AND AT THAT MOMENT EVERYTHING CHANGED

Strangely, it was the title of this play that first appealed. As soon as I read it I had to find out what the play was about.

Playing at The Old Fitzroy in Woollooomoolloo, And At That Moment Everything Changed follows the arc of the relationship between Darla and Dave. They are a couple of best mates who almost against their better judgment decide to cross the line to the dark side and become lovers. They discuss old chestnuts such as whether girls and boys can in fact be close friends without sexual tension before taking the plunge, and we see the evolution of their coupledom over a big chunk of time against the backdrop of four Olympic Games.

It's not a new scenario and Darla and Dave are not the most original characters, and at least to this bum on a seat it seemed pretty obvious that that while they might be good mates, the character differences were great enough that they were probably doomed as a couple.

And yet something about it all clicked. Sophie Cleary as Darla and Yure Covich as Dave breathed life into what could have become characatures – she of a nervy, histrionic and insecure woman and he of a sport-obsessed bloke who loves few things more than beer, gaming and wanking.

That they created characters we cared about came down to some down-to-Earth acting and some understated but assured writing from Sarah Doyle that handled humour as well as it handled pathos. Genuine laughs here, and some moving moments. And most of us will recognise the awkwardness that comes from the struggle to retain individuality within the confines of coupledom.

LEE BEMROSE

Season Over

Q & A with Goldie Feather, Bohemian Love Theatre at Peats Ridge Festival

I had to interview Goldie Feather (aka Zac Watt) for a piece on the Peats Ridge Festival. Had a hard time reaching him by phone so I emailed the questions to the publicist and she sent them on to him.

The story willl only be about 600 words for the mag but this is such an all round weird interview I couldn't let it go to waste. The guy is wonderfully nuts and he doesn't so much reveal what his show - The Bohemian Love Theatre - actually is so much as allude to what may (or may not) happen. The result? I want to go. I don't have a clue what's going to take place but I really want to go.

Here is the full 2000 word Q & A...

What can you tell us about the Bohemian Love Theatre?It is an organic entity, subject to the uncontrollable but Loving Forces of Universal Providence (I just made that up). It is a whirling dance of ideas and mischief made form from the Fire of Love & the even liberating hearts and deep down terrified minds of over 300 thinking Human Monkeys (over the course of its existence).

It’s a huge stage in a 15 x 25 hoecker style tent. With reams of lush velvet, brocade, carpets , cushions and hundreds of meteres of lovingly hand sewn ivy – all stitched together with visible patches and little bits of string.

What exactly is it The Bohemian Love Theatre?The BLT is what we call a 'Performed Venue'. In a way you could say that the tent and the stage and all of the bits in it are sort of props in a huge show – like if you imagine someone making a movie, set in some alternate reality – like some kind of lost in time, boho beat sci-fi fairy tale love world, and they needed a big kooky circus tent style thingy which was 'of that world' – well that’s the BLT.

What happens inside?It is sort of a secret, reserved for those who do find their way in, but I can tell you a little bit.

It’s kind of like entering the womb of a giant, beautiful beast. The people are its blood and the electricity that enables them to continue functioning is the electricity of the organism – you, me, everyone.

It has a Hotpants cannon in it.

It’s very, very pretty.

Can you quickly run through some of the performers and what they will be doing?Well there are some crazed monkeys – 10 in total – they break free from their cage and attack people in the audience generally. Then there is a 40 person Hotpants Army – they march triumphantly in support of a wave of change – long overdue change – in the realm of men’s summer fashion, firing Hotpants out of a 4 barrel compressed air Hotpants cannon and volleying them into the proverbial maw of the waiting audience with tennis racquets.

There are also a couple of frogs on gold choppers and a surprise giraffe with a 6 inch penis. There are many more – 120 in total – not including those enlisted on the night.

Do prospective audience members really have to audition to make it inside?Yes, yes in a way they definitely do. There are three factors that can help a person interested in getting in. Number one is a good costume - no one can get in without a good costume – you have to be able to pass as being 'of that world', you see. That said there have been many people who have created sufficient costumes on the spot, swapping clothes with other people can work, some people have simply gotten naked... one girl took three safety pins out of her jeans and pierced her bicep with them – they all got in. That’s kind of the second factor – willingness to 'go there', spontaneous acts of atypical behaviour, presence of mental clarity in dealing with some of the Gatekeepers' challenges, outpourings of unusual emotional substance... these types of things could get you in. Of course being first in line can also help, a bit, but the one most powerful thing is one of Signor Piggy Wigg’s special little Shiny Golden Tickets – there is no absolute promise but man they can move a lot of obstacles...

Don’t wear any shoes cause you can’t get in with them – absolutely can’t. You can leave them at the door but some people don’t like to do that.

Does anyone in the audience ever upstage the performers?It’s often hard to tell who’s who – naked people in the past have made quite a splash but that will all be taken care of this year.

There was one guy dressed as a six- armed bug once in the tent – he got called up to be sawn in half by Dangerboy. He was visually striking and thus made quite an impact but I don’t think you could say he upstaged Danger – it’s a very equalising realm in there...

From my reading I get the impression that there's quite a bit of spontaneity in the show. Is it scripted/choreographed or is it quite spontaneous?It’s what we often refer to as 'Raw, semi-rehearsed madness'. In fact we have actually been rehearsing it for months now but its scale is so grandiose and its nature is so intense that it never really comes entirely into our control. It has 120 or so human hearts and minds pouring into it in various ways. And then when it comes to life on the night there a further three to four hundred added to the mix.

Even one human is a weird thing when you think about it.

We just have to abandon ourselves to moonlight sky with fingers crossed and lots of deep breathes.

By the time we get there it’s a bit like, 'Well this is what we ended up getting together for you.' And the magnificent flow of the wonder of it all just fills in the gaps.

Audience participation scares me. Should I be scared of The Bohemian Love Theatre?No, no, no. You shouldn’t be scared of anything.

But as for the BLT - it’s a very nurturing environment – the inside is quite a lot calmer than the outside - intoxicating, electrifying, a little bit spooky but ultimately quite soothing. That’s part of the challenge – Can you make it past them Gatekeepers? But you won’t be exposed if you don’t want to be.

But if you do want to be you could join Min Mae’s Tableaux Vivant – she needs around 40 or 50 people to get naked on the stage so she can sculpt up some beautiful naked human flesh tableaux. Tell her you’re keen at the gate - it could help you to get in.

Tell us about your creation, Goldie Feather.The full name of him/her/it is 'The Great Golden Fool Goldie Feather'.

I’ve always thought that this world needed more idiots – more great golden fools – people to remind us that we are in fact all lost and that none of us know any better that any other.

We have had such marvels as Bowie, Iggy, Jimi, Jesus, Bon Jovi, Madonna, Rasputin, Farnsey – but who today?

It’s kind of like a cross between Baron Munchausen, the Drunken Buddha, a comedy Lion and Freddie Mercury.

I’m hopin’ that Goldie Feather's arrival can play a significant role in the evolution of the Human species into the long necked, see through, telekinetic, electric guitar genius, amphibian creatures that we are no doubt destined to become.

Often alter-egos do things their creators would not do. Is this the case with Goldie?The line has started to become very blurry.

Every two or three days I wake up bewildered, covered in smudgy make up, glitter, spandex – often surrounded by people, strange objects, costumes, animals. I feel like, 'Which one is this?'

Sometimes I find myself waving my arms in the air – dancing like my arm is the neck of an ostrich, hearing the music of Ennio Morricone in my head - but I’m in a supermarket or something. And I feel a bit shy and I sort of want to stop but I think, 'This is it man, this is your moment.' But it isn’t any moment – it’s just dancing.

I guess that kind of stuff’s pretty common nowadays though – with the internet and everything.

What a world!

Why the name Goldie Feather?Like Michael Hutchence said, 'We all have wings...' and then some other stuff.

Once a friend asked me 'Why do you spend so much time painting your beautiful white wings gold? Everyone can see them you know...' (She really loves me). So I guess I just excitedly thought – 'I’ll split in two – keep on painting them wings by day, make a career of it and then when I’m in my little nest at night I’ll throw it all off and be free like a fragrant breeze'.

It didn’t really work like that though – both seem equally as foolish and breezy... there even seems to be a couple of others coming around lately.

Is this show very different to previous shows of yours that people might have seen?It is absolutely the most elaborate spectacle I have ever staged – once I have seen the full show – the big show that we are developing for Peats Ridge – it will be also absolutely, without a doubt the most elaborate spectacle I have ever seen. Except maybe Phantom of the Opera – I saw that when I was a kid – that was pretty elaborate.

What has been your favourite recent performance and what made it special?The first gig we did we offered a free toasted sandwich to the first five people who got naked at the event. This one guy got naked and climbed up on the stage but he fell over backwards, tangled in his pulled-down pants, and rolled back into a ball onto the drum kit – revealing his entire anus. I had such a great position that if I had dropped a hardboiled egg directly out of my hand it would’ve likely popped right in.

We didn’t actually have any toasted sandwiches so we gave him an ice cream taco instead. But he wasn’t happy with this – several days ago he and a friend chased us through the streets in a van shouting out 'Grilled Cheese Sandwich!' and blaring their horn – for blocks and blocks. It was like a scene out of Robo Cop but in this case with someone shouting, 'Grilled Cheese Sandwich!'

What are your thoughts on the Peats Ridge Festival?Peats Ridge Festival is like the nurturing creator deity of the BLT – without them this beautiful entity genuinely wouldn’t exist. It is my creative Mummy & Daddy. I frik’n love it – independent of my own personal familial bias I would also say that in my opinion it’s fast becoming one of the best festivals in Australia.

I really feel that.

Every year that we have been involved it has just gotten better and better – high vibes unfolding, music, arts and a beautiful ethos out in the sweet, sweet country. It’s human evolution, in my mind.

We should come along to the Bohemian Love Theatre because...?If you miss it all of next year you’ll be one of those people in conversations at parties and such like who has no anecdotes about the popular subject and just sits there laughing nervously and nodding ‘cause they don’t really understand the context. And when the attention comes to you and it’s your turn to talk you’ll just look sheepish and think, 'Man, I’m gonna need a frik’n good costume for Peats Ridge this year...'

The Peats Ridge Sustainable Arts & Music Festival, Glenworth Valley Tuesday December 29 - Friday January 1

Grumpy on Farts and Orgasms

Click on the image to biggerise and (hopefully) enjoy my latest Grumpy column as it appears in the pages of Tsunami.

Missing

The good ones, they always go away. Why is that? Why this recurring pattern? Random, unlikely encounter. Lives entwine. Bonding. Trust. Doubt. Trust again. They give you somethiing you need without even knowing they are giving it to you. If you think about it, you are probably doing the same for them, but mostly you just see it from your point of view: they were not here, they are here, I cannot imagine them not being here.

And then they go. The good ones, they always go away.

Ixchel Promo With The Dreaded One & Me

Promo clip of what was a good night and a particularly memorable one for me.

I think there will be more DJing coming up. Stay tuned.

An Exciting Doof Adventure

Picture an enraged Cherokee warrior screaming hysterically at the two in the picture and a couple of their friends. I mean, what could they possibly have done to be screamed at? They are quite obviously floppy and happy and wouldn't do anything to hurt anyone. She's even wearing a chicken hat and he's wearing a purple shawl thing he likes to think of as a shoulder poncho. What could have lead to the screaming, war cries and bulging veins and threats?

What happened was this... we're at a doof. We're wandering aimlessly and find ourselves at a pretty empty dancefloor. Music is good but everyone's just chilling and mucking about. Someone starts to kick this really silly looking green rubber ball with nipples on it about. I vague out for a short time. Maybe I've gone into the forest for a quick forest wee. When I return the others tell me that they accidentally kicked the green nipple ball into the sound deck and the sound guy went a bit apeshit.

Brilliant, I think, I'm going to peg the green nipple ball back into the sound deck to see what reaction it gets. The others look unsure. No one actually says no don't do it, however. I take aim and boot the ball but it hits a banner and falls short, coming to rest at the base of the raised sound deck. It's a scaffolding set up with the viewing platform maybe ten feet in the air. I pick the ball up and gesture a suggestion to the others that I shoot the ball up into the booth. They laugh because it's just too cheeky. They look unsure. They don't actually warn me not to do it. The chicken hat wearer is daring me with that irresistible grin.

I take aim. I pop the ball up like I'm shooting a hoop and the green nipple ball sails jauntily through the air and into the sound booth, bouncing harmlessly across the floor. From where I am I can see the legs of the sound guy, and suddenly he's on the move.

One second it's the funniest thing ever, next thing there's this full-blown Cherokee warrior going absolutely batshit about the green nipple ball. Geronimo is coming at us and he's fucking angry. Woopsie.

If I had seen the original reaction and had any idea what I was getting us into, I would not have popped the ball inside a second time. The guy is totally unhinged. He's screaming about his equipment, about fucking stupid balls, about the drink the green nipple ball knocked over (it didn't) and how we have to get him another can of bourbon and coke and we have ten minutes to do it. He chases the green nipple ball and tries to boot it deep into the surrounding forest but kicking stupid green nipple balls is clearly not his forte. The kick is what a football commentator might call a dead set shocker. Hilarious.

I'm trying very hard not to laugh as the sound guy gets into a tug-o-war with the chicken hat chick over the ball. I'm shouting at the guy to chill, he's shouting at me to stop laughing, one of the others is shouting that he witnessed the drink not being knocked over... it's pandemonium out there, folks. Totally insane, and I'm watching this lean, mad, war-path fucker and wondering what his proud ancestors would make of all of this.

Things calm down. Guy goes back to his sound booth. I feel a bit bad because it was a pretty juvenile thing to do.

Funny as fuck though.

Later we're back at our campsite and Geronimo On Acid walks by on his way to a nearby tent. We giggle a bit. Someone from another tent comes over and asks what triggered all the mayhem on the danncefloor earlier, he having seen the sound guy's explosion as well. We tell him it was all a bit of an accident and that we shouldn't have kicked the ball into the sound booth. I don't think we realised just what a commotion we'd been caught up in at the time.

The guy nods at our explanation and then says, deadpan, "He was pretty pissed off... I'll give you a hundred bucks if you peg the ball into his tent now."

I would like to say that it was the funniest hundred bucks I ever made, but even my stupidity has its limits. Mostly.

Farewell Big Pointy Building

A bit of an era started around here. Alas, I'm wandering again and The Dreaded One has also left The Big Pointy Building. Times, they are a changin'.

Off doofing this weekend. Celebrating a wunth anniversary of adventures with a not so new person. Going to dance in a forest at Dragon Dreaming. I think I'm going to go as some kinda cyber Viking.

I think The Dreaded One will be missed at The Big Pointy Building. But you know, new stuff ahead.

Elevator Blues

Place I'm working at at the moment has this talking elevator. Female voice with a really snooty attitude. All I hear her saying as the doors close is "Going up!" She says it just like that too. Little stab of an exclamation mark at the end.

But what it sounds like is her telling the occupants of the lift in that superior tone to "Growup!" Like she's talking to a bunch of petulant kids.

What I really don't like about this superior elevator bitch though is that we're on the ground floor. She wins the prize for stating the fucking obvious. The elevator can't go down. And it's not likely to go sideways or backwards, is it. And if it doesn't go up it's not an elevator at all, it's just a room.

Got half a mind to go into the elevator and give the bitch a goood talking to.

Kyle Sandilands And The Suicide Bombers

Dear Cosmos,

It's come to my attention that it's been a full ten years since I won a a national writing competition with this story. Ten years is rather a long time, and if it's not terribly much trouble I'd like to put in a request to win another one please. After ten years and only one win, you start to feel like it wasn't actually a win so much as a clerical blunder. Maybe the winning entry was called Forgetting Argos and the judge was a bit dyslexic or pissed or something.

Anyway, I'm entering another competition in the next couple of weeks and it would be really nice if you could look favourably on my entry. Hell - another clerical blunder is cool with me. Totally cool cool and cool.

Keep up the good work. Maybe think about doing something about Kyle Sandilands and the suicide bombers... wait on - that sounds like an excellent name for a boy band. Kyle Sandilands And The Suicide Bombers. Live on stage! One show only! Brilliant!

Hmm. Maybe, Cosmos, you and I can swap jobs for a while. You can be the fuck-about that is me and I can take care of all the really big stuff.

Cheers mate,

LB.

A Place For Everything, Nothing In Its Place

Us, in my room.

Me, looking around at the clothing explosion.

Me, scooping armsful of clothing from the bed.

Her, smirking.

Me, what the fuck is going on here? I could have sworn I put all my clothes away at least two weeks ago.

Her, smirking loudly.

Lady In Red Panties

Just then at the local supermarket, the woman in front of me walks briskly through the turnstile. I catch a flash of bright red and notice that there's a bit of a clash going on with her skirt and her shoulder bag. Bag's hitched the skirt up hight so that she's flashing her red panties for everyone in the supermarket to see.

I'm about to catch up and say someting to her but she's really on a mission. She's heading straight for whatever it is she needs. Moisturiser or frozen pizza or whatever. She's too quick and suddenly I've missed my moment.

And then I think fuck it. Not my problem, because I've been burned by this exact kind of thing before.

I was waiting for The Dreaded One while she tried stuff on in a changeroom. A woman walked out, back in her own gear after trying other outfits on. She walked across the room and I couldn't help noticing that her skirt was tucked very neatly into her panties. They were very nice panties and it was a very nice arse, but I was pretty sure she wasn't intending to display the whole package quite so proudly.

"Excuse me," I said, "but I think you have a bit of unintentional backdoor action going on there."

"What?"

In hindsight, not the best choice of wordage, especially as she didn't know I was waiting for a partner to emerge from the changeroom.

"Your thing is tucked into your wotsits. Thought you should know." Accompanied with a bit of a whistle, finger point and glance in the opposite direction like I hadn't seen a thing.

She did that thing where you try to look at your own arse, realised what was going on and rectified the wardobe malfunction. Then shot ME the most evil look you could wither under before storming off in a huff. Death beam eyes like I had tucked the hem of her skirt into her panties for my own amusement.

So, woman sprinting for the frozen pizza in Coles tonight, sorry I didn't tell you about your thing being tucked into your wotsits. Not my problem. Besides, if you happened to be that same woman all those years ago...

I Be Smilin'

Not much into family but I have occasionally wondered about my father. The guy in this clip, he and I share the family name I was born and grew up with. Wonder if Clarence is my Dad.

Heard this song again today and it made me smile on an otherwise gloomy morning... I be strokin'...

Brainspill

Too much thinking lately. Too much to think about. I don't know how I get involved with other humans but I kind of wish I didn't. There's much more peace down that road. I guess maybe the trick is, if I really feel this way, the lesson to be learned and to remember is that when you feel yourself being pulled into their world, pull out early because if I don't get out early it'll become this thing I take on board and I'll think and think and think. And sometimes I don't want to think about other humans and their troubles.

I'm getting this thinky shit from all angles. Examples? Try this one: I got facebooked from someone from my childhood. Met this kid way back in primary school. We were mates. Then I move away to other schools in other shitty parts of other cities before returning to my home suburb during highschool years. Met the same mate and we were friends again. I didn't like school at all, couldn't wait for it to be over. I was a really quiet kid, felt like a loner but managed to have some kind of group of friends. Ha - just remembered one kid telling another kid something about "Bemrose's group". I do remember we were always getting into some kind of trouble. I do recall usually being the ideas guy. I think this was why the teachers regarded me so strangely; couldn't figure out why this shy boy was always where something was going on. Thing they never knew is the stuff they caught us for was a fraction of what we did.

I lose touch with this guy and he reapperas years later. Same deal as it ever was only we're adults, still carrying on like kids.

Guy appears, then fades out. Reappears yet again years later. By now we're fully grown up. Things have changed now though. There are partners and he's got kids and a career although I couldn't tell you what he does. Last time I saw him it was a typical wife and kids encounter. Mainly it was about the kids or kid, can't remember. I just remember accepting that something was lost. No drama because this is what happens. Worst thing you can do is try to recapture the past. Saddest thing is dredging memories to fill in a stilted silence.

Out of the blue I get facebooked by the same guy. Fuck, it's been years and I just don't know what to make of it. He doesn't sound happy and I'm strangely moved by this. I'm moved that he keeps making the effort to get in touch. It's been ten years this time since I've had any contact with this guy I've known since I was a scabby-kneed boy, and a lot has happened in that ten years. Lost a catering company. Got into dance music. Started writing a humour column. Became music editor of a dance music mag. Short story award. Short stories published in litmags and anthologies and a crime mag. Features in magazines all over the place. Interviewed famous people. Opened a clothing store. Cheffed at The Sydney Opera House. I've DJ'd and travelled to Turkey for a dance festival and to experience a total solar eclipse. I write all this down and send it to him, knowing that I'm not successful, but I've done some stuff.

And yeah, he's not happy. He's got a good job and a good car in a nice place but he's not happy because of the things he doesn't have or the things he hasn't done, and I feel for him, even though he doesn't know that I don't have things either, that I regret the things I haven't done too. He seems impressed with my stuff.

So I'm thinking and I'm thinking, wondering what the point of it all is. I think in the firt post I wrote on this blog, I was in a similar mood. Will have to check on that. Think I was a bit concerned about the fact that we're all going to die. Now, though, it's not the fact of dying but the looking back. It's a head-fuck because what's the point of anything.

It's the experience, I know. It's the stuff. It's the dancing and the laughing and the being there for people you love. It's doing something because you cared. Everything you do, you should care about it. If you don't care, don't do it.

Then again, I don't know. What's the point even when you care?

Another example: place I work at, this old guy comes in to deliver his fruit and vegetables. He's in his 70s and doesn't take a day off. When asked about why he doesn't take a day off he says with a bemused laugh, "Why would I do that? I wouldn't know what to do with myself." Shakes his head as he walks away, thinking it's the most stupid thing he's ever heard. My boss thinks it's great - guy that old just wants to keep working.

I think it's the saddest fucking thing I've heard all day. Stupid old prick. Do you really look back on your life and think you were put here to deliver fruit and veg? Bet the fucker spends hours stuck in city traffic listening to his favourite shock jock and thinks life doesn't get any sweeter. Way to miss the point, old guy.

But what do I know? Maybe he grows the produce himself and sees the good that is there in getting his goods to the customer. Suddenly I'm thinking about that Raymond Carver short story, A Small, Good Thing. The baker in that story, he just loved baking. Loved the early mornings, loved the purity of the process of baking, loved making people happy.

So what do I know? I know shit. I don't want to think about people and their problems or the past because it just gets me down. You can't do a damn thing about any of it so why waste your time thinking about it? Do your own stuff in there here and now. Make someone laugh. Tell someone you love that you love them. Tell them at a random moment that you're one lucky fucker to have them in your life. Dance like a fool with some friends. Roll down a grassy hill. Feel - really feel - the strength in a lingering hug and appreciate that as a really beautiful thing because the person giving you that hug wants to give it to you, and once they were a stranger. How cool is that? And the smile. When a person's face lights up simply because they've seen you, drink that in because living just doesn't get any better. And give it back. Be frugal with your smiles because they mean more then, but mean it when you do give them out. Make 'em mean something.

I don't know. I don't even know what I'm writing here. It's just brainspill. I haven't been writing enough and for all the good stuff there is other stuff. Things being taken away. I don't know. I think I need to write more. Can't get my stories published and I really said fuck them this time, but I don't think that's the answer. I think I need to be like the old delivery guy. I need to get that thing back where I can't imagine taking a day off from writing. Was a time when I would have laughed at the very idea - Why would I take a day off? I wouldn't know what to do with myself.