Giraffes, maybe (pt 3)

Ask me why I’m here. Go on, I dares ya. Not why I’m here on earth (I explained that in the last post, but short answer: co-inkydink). Not why I’m typing this up (short answer: none of my friends want ta hear about my holiday). And not why I’m overseas to begin with; Macaw and Starling’s wedding was two days ago, though, and now I’m dry-retching my way through the world’s worst coffee on a 6.50am flight to Sweden. So why am I here, and not back in London with the rest of my friends?

The wedding went off without a hitch, apart from the obvious one. Dove and I met up with Mockingbird in London, grabbed Dove’s old housemate Kite (now a UK res) and drove across England in a rental car, pausing to navigate the dangerously non-linear geography of Bristol to pick up a travel-hardened Drake before heading into the rolling hills and dales and glens and fens and heaths and copses and other topological forms which make Somerset so beautiful. Which it truly is, as was apparent from the first moments spent speeding through the countryside.

The winding roads are charmingly narrow, almost always bordered on both sides by ancient stone walls, thick hedgerows or abrupt drops. There are no pavements and indeed no hard shoulders along most of the roads, some houses even opening front doors directly onto the tiny two-lane highways. The extremely snug fit of all this means that a fractional misjudgement would mean a certain crash, and with Mockingbird at the wheel maniacally careening across the English landscape, this was a distinct possibility. Guy knows what he’s doing, though.

The night of our arrival was pretty quiet. We arrived at the church for a wedding rehearsal and walked all over Clevedon looking for a late dinner. We saw how grand and proud much of the town is, immense historic houses arcing up gorgeous sloping streets, most looking like converted churches. We saw how different our lodgings were. Warren’s Village is not, suffice to say, in Clevedon’s most sought-after district.

The day of the wedding itself kicked off with Dove being attacked by a cow. He’d risen early and wandered off down the meandering lane to get some supplies for breakfast. On the way back, he was ambling contentedly along a country lane, bordered on either sides by the ubiquitous hedgerows, and looking closely for hedgepigs (the quest for hedgepigs was one of the constants in our voyage). Suddenly he heard what I can only describe as a bone-chilling moo, and I’m pleased to think that you’ll never read that phrase again in your long-legged life. The cow-roar was accompanied by the sound of clattering hooves. Soon enough, around a bend in the road came a wildly cantering cow, and by his account, a cow with its hoof hard on the gas pedal is a deeply disturbing sight. It charged towards him, and a combination of shock, fear, and comic disbelief rooted him to the spot. Also, there were eggs in the shopping bags which might have been broken had he tried to jump a hedge. Just before it reached him, the cow veered to one side and he found himself alone again, with only the sound of a rapidly disappearing mad cow and a sense of unreality to accompany him. All in all, a nice way to start the day.

This comedy of errors continued when I noticed that Mockingbird had worn my contact lenses instead of his own. This wasn’t a problem for me, but since he was off somewhere driving around those narrow and perilous roads, I began to worry. Mine are about three or four times as strong as his. When he’d left to help set up the wedding, he’d commented on how filmy and blurred his vision seemed. To my shame, I’d told him (a new contacts wearer) that this wasn’t strange in the morning, when the eyes can take a while to adjust. These thoughts might have been ringing in his head as he barrelled through a crumbling wall on top of a picturesque bluff.

But that didn’t happen.

The wedding, of course, of course. Macaw and Starling were (and are) a gorgeous couple, as everyone remarked.

The ceremony was well attended, and the reception was unforgettable. Set in a green country estate replete with cows and goats, I danced with old people and children. This is always one of the joys of special occasions, though you’d never want to dance with old people or children at most other points in your life. There were speeches which managed not to be embarrassing or ill-judged, but instead came across as tender and aww-worthy (Mockingbird's best man speech wasn't as violent as the prep suggested):

There were slightly drunken relatives whom I’d never met but who nonetheless welcomed me as a fellow countryman, and applauded the fact that the strange young Australians were the first on the dancefloor, and the last to leave - although really, we weren't the first, since the bride and groom cut some rug to warm things up, in accordance with tradition:

There was a Scot who kept his iPod in his sporrin.

There were sunflowers:

And there were lots of people from Somerset. I’d never met someone from Somerset. They’re a breed apart.

A day or two later, back to London, where Mockingbird left for Italy and Croatia and the rest of us stayed another night. I went to the zoo with Drake and Meadowlark (staying in London for a while). There were giraffes.

And the next morning I woke an hour and 40 minutes after my alarm went off and dashed madly across London to make it to my flight to Sweden.
Which doesn’t answer your question, does it? What am I doing here?

Sunflower (pt 2)

There’s a sunflower garden at Singapore airport. It’s worth a visit. Sunflowers don’t get enough play these days. They did on this trip. I saw a lot.

Coincidences have been on my mind lately. You let one in, the others follow. They pile up, crowding in at the door like noisy friends-of-friends at a party. Of course, they’re a fun bunch who know good dance moves so you don’t call the cops. But you do wonder – who are these crazy mixed-up kids?
The long leg of the Singapore to London flight takes around 13 hours, making it a tough one. Some people complain. Me, I can’t wait to relive those memories a dozen times per week for the coming fortnight at least. Reminiscing about long and uneventful periods of my life helps me avoid the difficult bits. That’s how into long flights I am.
By the time Dove and I made it to happenin’ Heathrow (the most Carnaby Street of airports (except not)), we’d been awake for about 40 hours each, unable to get more than a handful of hours of fitful rest on the plane. We met up with Kite, kind enough to take into her London home the slimy husks we’d become, looking as familiar with hygiene as the Mother Country is with dental plans, good coffee and respect for former convict-stock. Ah London, how I have missed your sun-dappled boulevards and grinning, fruit-proffering denizens!

As an-ex Melbourne housemate of Dove’s, Kite was very charitable in taking us in. I'd like to say that our appearance was "practiced disarray" but it was closer to "escaped mental patient". Nonetheless, we found a warm welcome up four flights of stairs (four flights from the smokers' courtyard, I should add).

We also found fellow Melbourne travellers Meadowlark and Mockingbird. (By now you might be wondering about the whole bird-theme with everyone’s names. Obviously, I’d prefer it if I was meeting a bunch of avian companions and acting like they was human, taking hilarious (if delusional) jaunts across the English countryside with my fine feathered friends until some quaintly-accented rural gent accidentally takes me down with his twelve-gauge and stands over me in head-shaking pity/scorn uttering words such as “twas ne’er meant fer man te cavort wi’ t’ birds so, aye” and my family to gather round my coffin clutching a feather in each hand. ‘Twas not to be, ladies an’ gents. The bird-words are merely to conceal identities, and also to produce a general bird-theme to this blog (note to self: keep thematics sublimated. Make the reader work).

London: We all went out for dinner and drinks at a few pubs near Kite’s. It was probably close to 48 hours we went without sleep, Dove and I. Waking up at 6.30am this morning on the cosy loungeroom floor, well, it felt like coincidence and randomness were far away. In the warm, still, nearly soundless hush of the old inner-London terrace, I ambled around making myself coffee, looking at pigeons and flat grey skies, feeling safe in an orderly and unsurprising universe.

Of course, coincidences aren’t always alien to such environments, and are often less than dramatic. Some examples: on the Singapore to London flight, I’m watching Tom Cruise grimace his way through Mission Impossible III. I’m not surprised that Tom’s on-board in this way. You don’t get more captive than this. I’ve joined that all-important demographic of “people who oughta know better, but don’t,” and Tom’s accountants are establishing their kids’ college trust funds on that fact. It’s the perfect flick for a half-attentive plane trip, and I’m able to dip in and out of alertness as I’m served food, check the time till arrival, and so on.
At one point my gaze drifts to the screen of the passenger to my left, and I find my neighbour is watching Cruise in The Firm. To my right, my other neighbour is watching Cruise in Days of Thunder. Flicking through the inflight magazine, I see we have 80 films to choose from, plus dozens of tv shows and documentaries. Still, for some reason we’ve managed to accidentally inaugurate the first ever Tom Cruise Midflight Film Festival, without any conferring on the matter. Which I find funny.
Stranger, though, is the moment when Tom kisses his wife in MI3 and spins her around in a lovely cinematic classic shot. At precisely this moment, I catch Tom pulling the same move in Days of Thunder, the camera twirling around Tom and Nic exactly the same way. It’s uncanny, double vision, and I’m startled by the apparent coincidence, since I'm not nearly drunk enough to make sense of it. After all, it’s not that an on-screen kiss is that rare, or even that the shot mightn’t be one that Tom loves to demand in a film. But the chances that both myself and a neighbour would start our films at the correct moment to synchronise the two kisses would seem pretty slim.

But that’s the way coincidences work, right? The chances of that occurrence taking place are a million to one at best, but the chance of something equally unlikely happening, anything at all, is almost 100%. The number of strange, nearly inexplicable things that could potentially occur in our lives is limitless, so we’re not that often shocked when they do. It’s kind of what I enjoy most about travelling like this – I have no idea what possibilities might befall me, scary or hilarious or enlightening or wearing an outrageous hat, but I can be reasonably sure that unforeseen and highly unlikely events of some sort will be likely and foreseeable. Is it coincidence that will lead me here?

A final example on this kind-of boring point. My aforementioned flight neighbours and I were sitting in business class. Anyone who knows me would know that I could not afford and would not shell out for anything more than a crappy economy class seat surrounded by smelly whiny-voiced strangers who are all elbows. By a bizarre coincidence, though, I received that legendary thing spoken of only in reverential whispers, the first thing people dream of when they plan to take a flight: a pair of complimentary plane socks. I also got an upgrade. I’d like to offer a recipe for upgradification, but my good fortune came down to this: somewhere in business class was another passenger with my name, middle initial and all. When the airline was allocating seats, it couldn’t tell which one of us had paid for business, so we were both given the sweet seats up front. I wasn’t complaining (and I know what you're asking - were my first words "stop your fussin' and get a-bussin'!" I'll never tell, but yes, there were! (Or weren't)). And of the 20 or so other passengers seated in my section, I never did work out who my namesake was. The chances of our sharing a flight and name are, surely, astronomically remote, but like I’ve been trying to say (lord, are you even listening to me? Jeez.) most things that happen do so against astronomically remote odds. What are the chances that a bunch of molecules will make their way across the universe over millions of years and get together to have a big multi-decade long knees-up named you? What are the chances that we’ll be born, grow up, develop faces, not be murdered by circus folk, fall in love or out of a car, understand the faintest thing we hear and be as children amazed by the complexity of everything that happens?

All I say is: thank you John M. Bailey, business class traveller. I’m pleased to wear your shoes for a day. You’re not touching my complimentary plane socks, but.

Pasta Shapes (pt 1)

The first rule of blog creation is "make it entertaining", a step up from the first creative rule I learnt in primary school which was more like "make it out of pasta shapes glued to coloured cardboard." I don’t know how entertaining these travel posts will be, though, but I hope they mean something to the people who actually know me. To the rest of you, feel free to request pasta shapes.

Fear of terrorism really needs its own term, doesn’t it? After all, the fear inspired by a bag left unattended on the tube isn’t that same sharp pang brought on by a stranger stepping out of a dark cobblestoned alley, or a sudden crash waking you from a deep sleep. There’s no keen-edged adrenaline ignition when the chirpy morning newscaster in London offer reports of the Pakistan-born woman detained at Heathrow yesterday. When a steward comes over the intercom during our flight to ask for the owner of the mobile phone found in the bathroom, the mind begins to dread, not panic. Though terrorist acts may occur suddenly, the fear of terrorism has little to do with abruptness. Terrorism seems more about waiting.When I was 20, I was forced to wait at Singapore’s Changi Airport for 14 hours. My connecting flight to Melbourne was delayed, then delayed again, and then again. I had no money, so I couldn’t pay the 15 bucks required to leave the airport itself, and obviously I couldn’t afford a book or anything to pass the time (food, too, was out of the question, so the slow gnaw of hunger kept me company most of the time). Anyone familiar with airports will know that they’re all about waiting, but you need to find something to keep you occupied. By the time I realised I was in it for the long haul, I had begun measuring out things like bathroom stops: taking a trip to the toilet became as exciting as a visit to Coney Island, and I would wait as long as I could to savour that thrill. A trip on one of the 100 ft long travelators was like a rollercoaster of fun, and the newsagent was a forbidden joy, since I could only spend a few minutes of browsing magazines before someone would ask if I was there to buy.This was a decade before 9/11. My waiting was contained, safe, and bound by the implicit knowledge that public spaces like airports or shopping centres were tightly controlled by security and surveillance. Wondering was limited. I knew my flight would eventually take me home. Waiting was about delay, but I never doubted that I’d make it back in the end.Waiting at Tullamarine for a flight to Sydney a few weeks ago was a different matter. I sat scanning the faces of the other travellers, business commuters mostly. The staring, sweaty face of a man fidgeting with the strap of his case, or the hard-eyed middle-aged woman with the carefully avoiding gaze; our waiting took on new dimensions of meaning. Nobody expected anything untoward to occur, but the possibility lingered, floated above us.Terrorism is all about waiting. We all know, or are told that something devastating will happen somewhere, at some time, but there’s nothing we can do about it. It probably won’t happen to us, but will happen to someone like us, like us in our insignificance, that is. And it’s out of our control. It strikes me that this dread is akin to more common, less dramatic situations. Love and affection, for instance. Not knowing whether this will last, whether it will all come crashing down or whether the detonation will be stayed another day. Waiting, of course; waiting to take action but knowing that the decision to flick the switch is not yours. Left plucking daisy petals, pretending assurance can be found in random signs, but knowing nonetheless that the waiting is bigger than you, is some way defines you.In this way, we are in a terrible, typical and unendurable life. All flights have been delayed indefinitely.

In the meantime, if you're already turned off by the lack of Jean Claude in the trip so far, this is pretty much a summary of the rest of my time overseas. Especially the guy at the start.

My Euro Trip

The Players

So, I've been pulling together the notes I made during my recent Ill-Advised Adventures in European Sojourning and am almost ready to post them up. So, for those coming here looking for half-baked arts commentary, you'll have to come back later (maybe in a week). Those looking for 'uncontrollable nerve shocks', sorry I couldn't help (unless I did). To the person who translated my page into (presumably) some kind of Hispanic language using an online service: impresionante! Everyone else, fasten your seatbelts as we put it into first gear and begin to edge this baby out of the driveway, looking both ways (twice)! ROCK!

THE PLAYERS

JACKDAW

DOVE

MOCKINGBIRD

MEADOWLARK

KITE

DRAKE

LYREBIRD

AND THE GORGEOUS COUPLE

STARLING...

...AND MACAW

Everybody Loves Raymonda

I'm currently held hostage by a particularly threatening bout of jetlag, and those who've done the London-Melbourne 24-hourer will know the mental quicksand one's brain must wade through to come up with a coherent sentence post-return. I was hoping last night's opening of the new Australian Ballet show Raymonda would be a rip-cord to yank me up out of this, but alas, it wasn't quite the case. One thing is certain, though: it really does live up to its name, most definitely featuring a character named Raymonda.

It turns out that this particular number was first created way back in 1898, when cavemen were just discovering fire. You wouldn't know it from this production, however; guest choreographer Stephen Baynes has turned the original into a homage to Grace Kelly and the Golden Age of Hollywood. It's an easy fit: the screen goddess of the title becomes engaged to a handsome European Prince, goes to live in his lovely land (with notably less casinos than Monaco, though) but has doubts on her wedding night and dreams about dancing with hot dudes in sleazy bars. Pretty much your average kitchen sink drama then, you know, like a Ken Loach film or something.

But I was disappointed to find that it didn't live up to all the hype. I mean, I was really looking forward to this. The pre-press sounded great, and the whole Hollywood angle had me about as excited as if they'd said the next AB production would feature giant robots duking it out over Tokyo.

The cast were excellent, especially Kirsty Martin as Raymonda, who actually creates a character and delivers some expression and an emotional journey. Ray also being played by Lisa Bolte and Rachel Rawlins, and I would have liked to see Rawlins give it a burl since she really impressed me in La Sylphide.

The set was gorgeous, but there just wasn't enough of it. Often, we were given a few items of furniture and a simple backdrop, but that's it. Where were the lavish, glittering spectacles of The Sleeping Beauty or La Boheme? I guess this Prince was from one of those countries where the monarchy is just a lingering bunch of old freaks who still think people care that they're alive (like England or something).

The lighting was impressive, especially when Ray wakes up after her long, luscious dream (and as an aside, there was a genuinely funny moment when new hubby finds her sleeping and notices the empty liquor bottle next to her, giving a look which jovially suggests "Whoops, wifey's got substance abuse issues! Didn't see that coming!"). And costumes were fine, and music and stuff. But I didn't feel there was enough of anything here, the show going for subtlety and delicacy over big impact showstoppers.

You know, I suppose that's not really a criticism, is it? But when you're desperately trying to stay conscious and aware that your body thinks it's 12 hours past bedtime, subtlety and delicacy just don't work. Still, everybody else loved Raymonda.

Now when I get a chance, I'll be posting some stuff on my trip, just for friends and not the casual reader such as yourself who got here looking for pictures of Jean-Claude dancing or the tablature to Hello Dolly or the lyrics of a certain George Michael song.

A Salzburger with Fries

Just a quick update to let readers know that I'm alive, reasonably well (apart from a cold that has come from nowhere), rather poor, lightly tanned, cleanly attired, perpetually confused, occasionally lost, constantly tired but never hungry, pleased to have found a cheap internet cafe but reluctant to stay long due to the atmosphere or lack thereof, pleasantly housed and soon to be homeward bound. Where in the world is Born Dancin'?

Here's a hint: the hills behind me are, I'm positively informed, alive with the sound of music. Also, for some reason, blunderbusses, fired by a squadron of men in green felt hats and lederhosen at 11.45 this morning. No idea what was going on there, but just to be safe I'll be staying on the right side of the law until I leave on Monday. Then it's back to London for a few days and home again, where I'll be able to post what I've written on this trip and haven't had time to type.

Until then, I'll be cycling around this beautiful town and climbing every mountain (I've been up a few so far) and singing to myself in an effort to stave off madness (and beggars).

I Got (Guten) Tagged

It's been a while, dear friends, but rest assured that I've been writing. Just not on a computer, since I haven't been near one in some time, at least not for more than a few minutes at a time. Moreover, I wasn't going to post anything until I found a PC that I could upload pictures onto, because I have many and they are good and sometimes funny and sometimes not. But I got tagged, and have settled into Berlin for a week or so, and feel I may as well take the chance to unwind from a torturous few days riding a rusty bike halfway across Denmark until the thing nearly fell apart and then walking another 30kms to get to the coast and blagging a free ride on a ferry and turning up in Berlin at midnight with nowhere to stay and then remembering why I love this place so much. So here goes.

1. Three things that scare me:
Being laughed at.
Getting mugged by people who don't speak English, possibly carrying knives.
Maury Povich with a plate of pickles
2. Three people that make me laugh:
The person who writes Monkeysforhelping
The person who writes Monsterhunter
The Americans sitting at the next computer having an argument about their friend - grown people saying in all seriousness things like 'I don't think we can be friends with Hayley any more. I'm sorry but it's true'.
3. Three things I hate the most:
Hate
Hate
Hate
4. Three things I don't understand:
Danish.
People who speak Danish, and why I can't understand them but feel as if I should.
The difference or connection between pickles (noun) and pickling (verb) and how cucumbers relate to this.
5. Three things I'm doing right now:
Waiting for laundry to finish.
Listening to jaunty Belle & Sebastian number piped over foyer speakers.
Struggling with unusual keyboard layout but appreciating the ability it affords me to pepper sentences with cüte äccents änd §ymßöl§
6. Three things I want to do before I die:
Scream 'don't touch that button - you'll kill us all!!!'
Speak another language really, really well
Work things out
7. Three things I can do:
Pretend to speak German enough to fool waiters and bartenders, while actually having no idea what they're saying
Run into interesting people while travelling
Ride a bike
8. Three ways to describe my personality
In a dry, ironic monotone
While eating a slice of cheese leftover from a party, and wondering if it tastes a bit funny or is it just me? Here, try some, no just try a bit.
Easily confused
9. Three things I can't do
Fight
Find what I'm looking for
Think of answers to these things easily
10. Three things I think you should listen to:
What people aren't saying
Old drunks in the street
I'd Rather Jack
11. Three things you should never listen to:
Your prejudices
Your anger
Freeform jazz
12. Three things I'd like to learn:
Danish
Tailoring
Bicycle maintenance
13. Three favourite foods:
Really awesome Berlin felafels
Blue cheese, pickles and pepper on crackers
Tofutti-based creamy pastas
14. Three beverages I drink regularly:
Black coffee, and lots of it
White wine
The sweet elixir of regret
15. Three shows I watched as a kid
Mysterious Cities of Gold
MacGyver
In Search Of...
16. Three people I'm tagging (to do this)
Manolo Blah Blah
GenkiGen
Our Man in Tokyo

The Boy From Melb

In case it's not obvious, I'm really rather heavily excited about my upcoming trip to Europe (and must keep a paper bag upon my person at all times in case of hyperventilation). I had a taste-test last Thursday when I flew up to Sydney for the opening of The Boy From Oz with the lovely Hugh Jackson (ETA: Duuuuh...Jackman. What was I thinking?). He wears the above expression for pretty much the entire show.

Now, first up, I don't recommend doing a Melb-Syd-Melb turnaround in under 20 hours. It's just not right, as thrilling as it may be to find yourself sprinting through Sydney airport at 8am while you're being called over the PA.

Still, the show was hugely enjoyable. As theatre (or even musical theatre) it's absolutely crap, with very few redeeming points. But as a big fat fun ridiculously camp concert, it's terrific. It's huge. Hugh prances and poses and preens with wild abandon, and doesn't just channel Peter Allen but evokes all of the many Australian entertainers who've presented a decidedly queer pose to mainstream Australia and been loved for it. Allen really was our Liberace, our Elton John, and like those entertainers was massively successful despite their sexuality. I guess the key is that they were never allowed to come out and openly admit that they were gay; there always had to be the opportunity for audiences to disavow what now seems blindingly obvious. Which is pretty sad, of course.

The first half of The Boy From Oz doesn't even tackle Allen's love life with any great detail; it almost feels like it's being deliberately covered up. The second half, however, is a different matter, with much of it spent covering one relationship of Allen's, with a New York bartender named Greg who passes away of an unspecified illness. When he comes back all in white, and he and Allen sing Olivia Newton John's "I Love You (I Honestly...Love Youuuuu)" (which Allen wrote), well, despite the incredibly tacky setup, it really works. And the many thousands at the opening night at the Sydney Entertainment Centre were audibly appreciative. Couple that with the many tears that rolled over Big Brother's reunion of David and his great love Sherif, and I couldn't help wondering at how far the depiction of gay love in mainstream Australian culture has come in the past decade. I was quite impressed, though I haven't really looked into the issue in much depth, and it doesn't need to be pointed out that we're hardly in a land of happy acceptance, or even tolerance, not by a long shot.

I mean, Allen and Greg couldn't have gotten married, here, for one thing.

Riding Wrongs

Some of you may know I'm jetting off to Europe in a couple of weeks, but I'm still not entirely sure where the trip will take me. I'm going for a friend's wedding in the UK, but will be heading over to Europe shortly thereafter. I've already organised Berlin and Prague, but am torn about the rest of the trip. From Prague, I have the option of heading north through Poland to Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia. OR I can go South, through Austria or Hungary to Croatia and perhaps Serbia. I desperately want to avoid the drunk-Boston-frat-boys-crowded places. Any tips?

One place I was thinking of visiting between London and Berlin (I have a week) is Copenhagen. I was reading about Denmark somewhere online and was informed that it's quite possible to buy a cheap bike and just pedal your way across the country. Is it strange that I found that incredibly appealing? Has anyone been to Denmark and confirm that it's small enough to just, you know, ride across? Somehow it seems a bit ambitious.

Bikes have been on my mind lately, having just gotten back on mine after an extended period of absence due to a lethal combination of flat tyre + general laziness (though I blamed the cold, too). I'd like to get a dented used bike in each city I arrive in, just so I can get around on the cheap.

Last week I was at the opening of Arena Theatre's Skid 180, a show based on bmx riders. Yep, it has real bmx riders doing real bmx tricks on a real bmx half-pipe. The tricks are great. The show was reaaaaaally mediocre. Now, as far as design, sound, even acting goes, there was nothing much wrong. The cast (from Manchester-based theatre company Contact) are sometimes a little amateur, sometimes a bit hard to understand, but they're young and some aren't actors by trade, so it's entirely forgivable.

I have to say, though, that the script was really disappointing. A show on bmx culture could well be a great one, especially if it managed to integrate the stunts into the show rather than just halting the story to throw a few action sequences in there. Skid 180, though, decides to offer us bmx riders as post-apocalyptic outlaws, bmx bandits playing at Mad Max. They rant and rave against The System as they cycle around the industrial wasteland of sewers and abandoned streets that make up the landscape.

Now, I like my post-apocalyptic scenarios, sure. But this kind of stuff was cutting edge about twenty years ago. It's now as dated as imagining the future as one defined by flying jet cars and everyone in identical silver jumpsuits. If you're going to give us a post-apocalyptic scenario, it really has to be kind of camped up these days, since this style has already hit it's use by date and is starting to whiff. I want to see jacked up dune buggies driven by mohawked mutants screeching through deserted shopping malls; I want an evil mullet-sporting overlord dressed in tight black leather chaps and a dog collar telling his henchmen to kill the hero but bring back the girl alive; I want people with names like Yor and Zontar and Damnius. I don't want to be expected to take the situation seriously.


(Is it wrong that I've seen this movie? Is it wrong that I own this movie?)

But Skid 180 really is too serious, and I might be going too far by thinking that this could be the result of the play being written by a poet. There are long slabs of lyrical, fragmented dialogue (or speechifying) that just don't work alongside real bmx stunts, and certainly don't have much place in a science-fiction genre setting. Not that poetry can't have a sense of humour but, well, we all know that too often it doesn't.

Neat stunts, though.

UP UP AND AWAY

This is a thing called a meme, and you can look it up if you don't know what that means. It's a blog thing and I don't thing I've ever done one, but I was tagged by a kind-hearted soul (after I asked them to).

So: some things.

A) Four jobs I have had in my life
1. Door-to-door Pole Salesman
2. Silver Service Waiter
3. Children's Creative Writing Teacher
4. Census Auditor

B) Four movies I would watch over and over:
1. Barton Fink
2. Chungking Express
3. Amelie
4. Being John Malkovich HAY CAN ANYONE SEE A 'QUIRKY' THEME?

C) Four places I have lived:
1. Ormond
2. Collingwood
3. Carlton
4. Fitzroy North

D) Four TV shows you love to watch: (at the moment)
1. There aren't 4 I watch these days, although I have half-heartedly tried to catch 24 and Lost, but often without success. Gave up on Big Brother early on, and I guess I'd probably watch the Simpsons if it was on the same room.

E) Four places you have been on holiday:
1. Berlin
2. Queenstown
3. Gundagai (en route elsewhere, but I stayed overnight)
4. The tiny lakeside Swiss town of Neuchatel

F) Websites you visit daily (in morning order):
1. My hotmail
2. My bank
3. My friends and families blogs
4. My work

G) Four of my favourite foods:
1. Blue cheese
2. TVP
3. Good, crusty bread
4. Vegan creamy fettucine with fake chicken

H) Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Eating the cheese and lettuce sandwich I had for breakfast. It's gone forever now.
2. Reading a good book in a warm room.
3. Somewhere remote and mountainous, preferably with a lake.
4. HERE:

Taking Care of Business

SO NOW THEN.

(Hey, whatever happened to my copy of Magnolia, anyway? Someone borrowed it and it never came back. Was it you? Or you?)

I'm in a rare almost-reflective mood, having spent the better part of the weekend taking care of business. Pulling together my last-ever arts page for a certain Melbourne streetpress magazine (and it's going out with a whimper, not a bang). Putting the lid on this year's Cheap Eats reviews (ugh, roll me out the door, thanks). Wrapping up another round of theatre reviews for something else. Sending off a critical piece for a Melbourne dance company. Cleaning my house for the better part of five or six hours. Trying to sort out tax. Bills. You know.

I realised not too long ago that I hadn't had a free second for a few years now. Of course, I had lazy moments, but these were always haunted by the work I should be doing, or chores I was neglecting, or whatever. They were stolen moments, if you know what I mean. But now, I think it's time to, well, not relax a bit, but work on some other tasks. Like staring out the window at the vines dripping the same rain which is rat-tat-tatting on the tin roof overhead and bouncing off the cars in the street and causing the birds in the trees at eye-level to let out a chorus of something whose meaning I'm not sure of. They don't sound annoyed, at least.

I've been casually re-reading Murakami's The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle lately, probably as prep-work for the non-business period I'm hoping for as of...well, tomorrow, I think. I can't think of a better calmative than reading about the protagonist's "vague and blameless life, spent cooking, reading, listening to jazz and opera and drinking beer at the kitchen table" (thanks blurb). I loved this book the moment I picked it up and read the first paragraph, and I think it's excellent reading for anyone overwhelmed by rubbish they're going through. You have to make time for it, though, and should be warned that it's pretty terrifying and graphic in a few parts.

But, as I said, I think a vague and blameless life would be good for a little while. We'll see how it goes.

In the meantime, here's Borat.


Anyone with the faintest recollection of the 80s will recognise this as The Running Man, that godawful dance which was spawned by the era (although, perhaps, it was more of an early 90s thing in Oz). I was doing some researching on The Running Man and came across this great site that attempts to list the major dance moves of the 80s. You know, your Lawn-Mower and your New Kids Dance and your Safety Dance. There's even the Roger Rabbit, a Running Man in reverse. But there are way more listed here than I could ever hope to recognise, and it made me anxious and wide-eyed to discover just how few of these moves I'd ever come across. The Cabbage Patch? The Prep? Jerry Lewis? I'm also saddened to say that I do know the Debbie Gibson.

And on that point, why aren't there many "dances" these days? So few "moves" to practice. It's all spontaneous and freestyle and stuff. Actually, looking at the abovementioned site, I suppose it's clear why this is the case.

Action Dance

I've really been getting some mileage out of that pilfered Van Damme series of two dancing gifs. Let's call it the Van Dance Gold Collection. I'd like to tip my hat to the guy for providing some much needed colour in our otherwise grey existences. But I have no hat. Perhaps I could raise some much needed hat-money, by busking or something. But even then, nobody would give me a cent, since I clearly have no hat to collect it in, and really, if you can't handle the outlay you shouldn't be going into business. Also: no musical talent.

But the Muscles from Brussels really could have had some kind of career if he'd kept up the dancing, maybe even taken some serious lessons. After all, the life of a dancer couldn't have been unattractive to him. How did he even become a second-rate action star anyway? His big "move" consisted of him being able to do the splits, and I'm sure that didn't keep Stallone and Schwarzenegger awake at nights. It'd be there in every film, the moment you've been waiting for, when some thug would be patrolling a dark, narrow alleyway and the camera would pan up to reveal Van Dammage perched above, outstretched legs bracing him between the two alley walls. Then he drop down and do some fighting. Or else he'd do his trademark "splits kick". Or else he'd just shoot someone and then do the splits.



This is JCVD in Double Impact. He wrote and produced the film. I don't think it's fair to think that Jean Claude was the only male action hero for whom a love of contemporary dance has been a bit of an unfair laughing point. I mean, he likes to let his hair down and turn up the heat occasionally, and we shouldn't really be picking on that.

Arnold Schwarzenegger was a bit less graceful when he filmed a short segment hosting Rio's Carnivale. This clip has it all: Arnie driving what appears to be some kind of 50s futurist's vision of the 1980s automobile (a bit like Total Recall's Johnny Cab); Arnie completely mangling the language in his attempts to say "cheers" in Spanish (or is it Portuguese?); Arnie explaining his favourite parts of the female anatomy to his (female) host; Arnie getting a bit tipsy and both boring and turning off said host while trying to hit on her; Arnie getting really tipsy and rushing a dancing stage to get inappropriately intimate with the performers; then it becomes kind of weird.

I guess there are times when the dancing has to stop.


Here it is.

Borncarraldo

Tonight I was finally watching Werner Herzog's sublime Fitzcarraldo, having waited for it since a life-changing encounter with Aguirre, Wrath of God several years ago. I'm not using the term 'sublime' loosely, since I know its fashionable nature in academic circles. But if you go with the philosophical notion of the sublime as that which makes us realise the edges of our conceptual ability to rationalise an experience, the encounter which forces us to confront a vastness so beyond our own limitations that we come to comprehend and, perhaps, derive some pleasure from the realisation of our own nothingness; well, the Fitz and Aguirre are clear examples of cinema's infrequent ability to offer a sublime experience. There's the massive confrontation between labour and nature, the battle of will and world, and the sheer daring of Herzog himself, working in a pre-CGI world and somehow getting funding for these films. Can you imagine a director nowadays getting the greenlight for a film which sees the greater part of its screening time following a madman dragging a steamboat over a mountain? And, of course, requires said steamboat to actually, you know, be dragged over said mountain?

The greatest part of both these films is, needless to say, Klaus Kinski. I first came across Klaus when I watched the B-grade horror flick Crawlspace about a decade ago, while huddled in a first-year uni sharehouse beset by a violent winter and a hippy-glam-rock band as neighbours prone to start rehearsals in the wee hours (regardless of the thin walls separating us). I don't recall much of Crawlspace, but I remember it as it was the first film during which I made a comprehensive narrative map. I was thinking about the trajectory of film storylines at the time, and decided to annotate a variety of randomly selected films in order to compare the number/duration/significance of particular scenes and therefore learn something, god knows what, in the process. As it happens, the first free-to-air film to appear after this decision was, well, you guessed it.

After watching Fitzcarraldo, I did some hunting on Kinski and came across this. It's a short piece made by the director of Crawlspace detailing the experience of working with the nutbag, with special interest for the way the Italian investors for the film sought to kill Kalus for the insurance money. It's very funny, but might only be so if you've seen a few of the actor's films. I'd recommend Herzog's My Best Fiend, amongst the best docos I've ever seen, focusing on the turbulent relationship between the director and actor. It's a stunner. Look for it.

Shake it Like JCVD

Yes, the Muscles from Brussels really does have quite the moves. Clearly one of his favourite "bits" is the little handclap, casually thrown in there almost without him noticing, as if to say "HAY GUYS, I'M LIKING THE WAY YOU MOVE THAT THING, KEEP ON ROCKIN' ME please!"

I suggest people who are a bit wary of dancing take a tip from JC and try adding that to their routine. After all, if it's good enough for Van Damage, it's good enough for you.

While we're on the dancing kick, one thing I've noticed is that a lot of people have iPods - by my head count on the tram this morning, I'd estimate roughly 4 million Australians. But I've never not once never seen someone dancing around holding it in their hands, like they do on every iPod ad ever. Which leads to the following possible conclusions:

1. Apple totally misjudged their market, thinking they were appealing to dance-around free spirits when really, no.

2. Apple appealed to the fantasy of dancing around free-spiritedly, perhaps knowing that the only people who harbour that fantasy are those who can't engage in such wanton behaviour.

3. People do this dancing, but only at home.

Judge for yourself.

This guy's showing us how it's done.

P.S. credits to Monkeys for Helping for today's images. If you have any dancing gifs you can suggest, let me know. Thanks to Our Man in Tokyo for noting the World Cup post-game EuroDisco shenanigans, which I can't find anywhere in the net! Damn technology, good for nothing but tears and pain.

Born Dancin'

Many of you will know that I was pretty much Born Dancin', but what many of you may not realise is that I have never felt dancing to really be a part of me. The name Born Dancin' is a lie. I came to dance late, awkwardly, often reluctantly and lacking in natural talent. Also, I was not born, but was instead hatched; this is of no import here.

But in my late teens I was witness to a fairly minor dance show showcasing the talents of a few Melbourne Uni students; thinking back, I have no idea why I was there, but I found it an incredibly energising experience. I'd often gone dancing at clubs and the like, and found it really enjoyable in a self-conscious way, but never really felt right because of that ever-present eye I projected out across the room, watching and judging me. And I guess I felt that a lot of other people were just as self-aware. My first experience of an actual contemporary dance show keyed me in on the kind of dance where a trained, able performer could simply move without those walls being put up, and I loved it.

Watching dancers at the peak of their game can be fantastic for this reason. There's still a certain level of self-consciousness in a lot of performers, but when that doesn't appear to be a factor you can find yourself enjoying something that's all too rare in today's daily experience, which seems to me to be a very mannered and image-aware one. Of course, in itself, unself-consciousness probably isn't enough to make a dance piece much chop. But it helps. And then again, no amount of talent is going to make the pleasure of watching a completely uninhibited grandpa or six year-old cousin jiving at Christmas time any more innocently pleasing than it already is.

There's lots I could say about Sydney Dance Company's The Director's Cut, but to be honest, it didn't really engage me the way I'd hoped. I had the same experience at the company's Underland a few years ago: I felt I should have been enjoying what I was watching more than I did (and that show was based on Nick Cave songs fer cryin' out loud - it should have been a surefire winner for even a non-NC fan like me). I won't go into my misgivings over the new show, however, since it was a) overall a good evening and I probably just wasn't in the right headspace and b) I'm not really in the blog-reviewing mode right now, having had quite an emotionally rough few weeks, to put it politely.

But it's for that very same reason that I'm going to begin a week of posting the kind of dancing that makes me smile. In a non-ironic, what-a-fool-you-are kind of way. No, in a you-get-down-and-shake-that-thing-any-way-you-need-to way. Because really, if we could all do a bit of this, I think the world would be a happier place (with less of the hatings and bang-bang-you're-dead stuff).

Take it away, Jean-Claude.

DAMN BABIES

I'll be posting on last week's opening of the Sydney Dance Company's The Director's Cut shortly, along with tomorrow's MTC/Malthouse double opening of I Am My I Own Wife/Unspoken...hang on, two openings in one night? How's that work?

To that I say, DAMN THE BABIES!

Tonight's meal brought to you by...

HAPPIER TIMES

"Instead of crucifying a guy on a cross, what about a windmill? That way you get the pain and the dizziness." That's a deep thought by Jack Handey.

I'm currently in great pain. As a restaurant reviewer for a reasonably esteemed annual guide, I get about three weeks a year where I'm obliged to stuff myself well beyond my usual limit, and after my first outing tonight I'm feeling it. I haven't been eating much lately, and now I feel like I've just stuffed a beanbag into a children's party balloon. That bloated balloon is my stomach. And some sadistic clown is trying to twist it into the shape of a sausage dog. While mixing metaphors. And asking me to write about the experience.

How am I going to get through the next few weeks? Chutzpah, chutzpah and moxie, and maybe a bit of old fashioned grit.

Also, if things get really bad, vomiting. Which is the vernacular translation of chutzpah.

There's also the emotional pain, but that's nothing to do with the food. And can't be solved by any of the above methods.

This I did not know.

"Hugo Boss AG is a fashion house based in Germany, which specializes in menswear and womenswear. It is named after its founder, Hugo Boss, who was a Nazi."

How interesting.

Love how they just slip in that last bit there.

Apparently he designed those swanky nazi uniforms.

ARE YOU A BIG FAN?

Putting out a cry for help here - and no, not the usual kind people must be getting sick of hearing from me.

As part of my work, I need to get in contact with a few serious Big Brother (Australia) devotees. We're talking people who watch the live streams, especially people who watch at 3 in the morning, or who are constantly connected to forums or watch it on their mobiles or somehow know the latest on what's going on around the clock.

If you know (or are yourself) one of these people, I want to hear from ya. Contact me at jbailey@theage.com.au

You might even get your mug in the paper.



NOTE: not a beat-up story, don't worry.

NOTE 2: If you want a real cry for help, that can be arranged too.

TIDES, FOREVER.

Well, I have lost you; and I lost you fairly;
In my own way, and with my full consent.
Say what you will, kings in a tumbrel rarely
Went to their deaths more proud than this one went.

Some nights of apprehension and hot weeping
I will confess; but that's permitted me;
Day dried my eyes; I was not one for keeping
Rubbed in a cage a wing that would be free.

If I had loved you less or played you slyly
I might have held you for a summer more,
But at the cost of words I value highly,
And no such summer as the one before.
Should I outlive this anguish, and men do,
I shall have only good to say of you.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Electro Kid Hop

A slight departure from my usual form, but I just had to post this.

In the course of researching something for work, I came across what may be the best kid's show ever (and I know, there are plenty of contenders for the title).

The show is "Yo Gabba Gabba!".

Here is a still.



Here is an insanely catchy video.

The website is yogabbagabba.com.

That's all.

Revolution Evolution

I guess it's time to post something on this here blog. And in keeping with my birthname of Born Dancin' (check the birth certificate!) I've spent much of the past week distracting myself from my otherwise fraught and distressing personal life (those biting-down-on-knuckle shuddering existential questions on morning tram rides, WTF?!?! et so forth) by immersing myself in some local dance culture. And being the arty sort that I am, you know I'm not talking commercial dance parties.

Regular readers of this site will be well aware of its regular visits to the Australian Ballet's opening nights (implied: non-regular readers - not so well aware). Briefly, I've been to every opening night for the past year and a half. And I've enjoyed every one.

The reasons for this are simple. This site was initiated in order to assess the catering at opening nights. Not the most altruistic of aims, granted. And it became apparent quite quickly that "mushrooom/fetta arancini balls a plus, olive and chicken pastizzi a minus" wasn't really a Shakespearean sonnet. But the brief still holds. AHFLV is all about the stories behind The Story, and I maintain the belief that there is someone out there who cares about said story (behind The Story). The story being the catering. But clearly: not really about the catering, you know?

The Oz Ballet put on a helluva show.

Catering-wise, anyway. The new AB show, Revolutions, probably isn't flash enough to win over non-ballet folks. It's a decent number which will offer plenty to enthrall ballet buffs, and those with an interest in ballet history will certainly enjoy it, since it's a reworking of three bits by Fokine, big man of modern (read: early C.20th) ballet. Not as spectacular as some recent shows, though. In fact this year has been a bit of a solid, well-drilled season, as opposed to last year's boom crash ballets.

The third piece of the evening is all about the sex. Set in a harem, there's a very Eyes Wide Shut love-in followed by lots of cutlasses to the throat, and it's quite a thrill, if kind of overblown and silly. I bring all this up because during this scene, the older gent sitting to my right was getting...a bit het up. His hands were fluttering and his breathing had become more shallow and at one point he whispered "gooood giiiirl" and I was...worried what would happen next. As soon as the night ended his partner told him he should quickly go now, and he bolted to the exit. I was slightly concerned by all this. Is this what the ballet is to some people? A culturally acceptable way to 'enjoy oneself'?

When the curtain rose for the bows, who else was there with the dancers but my excited neighbour!? He'd been the guy who staged the thing!

Daft me! I immediately felt bad for completely and unforgivably misconstruing the situation.

Not saying that ballet can't be pretty sexy though. I bet there was at least one older fella (or lass) getting an extra kick from the show.

The night before, I caught the opening of With a Bullet: The Album Project. It's great. It's the show you should see if you don't like/get/haven't seen contemporary dance. It's the show you should see if you do/have. I can't imagine somebody not liking it. My plus one for the night called it an adrenaline shot. And it really is.

Curated by Natalie Cursio (one of the best indie choreographers in Melbourne), the show consists of eight choreographers creating a piece around the first song they ever produced a dance number to. As in, dancing around the lounge room with your sister.

So you've got Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, Chariots of Fire, the Ghostbusters theme, and much more (I mean five more). There's a response to a psychotropic experience listening to a meditation track (not all of the choreographers were eight when they first began dancing, see). And it's one of the funniest things I've seen in ages. It explores the self-absorption of the New Age scene, the way one's own spirituality can seem ridiculous to an outsider, and the ego required to destroy one's ego. It's almost entirely danced by one man's butt.

Go see this show, for the love of whatever. It's smart and cheeky and fun and accessible.

I also spent this afternoon watching Lucy Guerin prepare her new dance work for the Melbourne International Arts Festival. It's a dance piece based on the Westgate Bridge collapse a few decades back. That sounds like a tough call. I think she might have pulled it off. I probably can't say much more yet. But at this point, at least, it's looking sublime.

If I could spend another life following the same footsteps, twists and phrases I've used in this one, I don't think I'd be any closer to understanding them.

SURREAL THING

I've long been harshly critical of the use of the word "surreal" in reviews, especially theatre reviews. Admittedly, I do have a vague anxiety which suggests that I may have used the term myself once or twice, but rest assured that this is only because I am lazy and/or sometimes have too much on my plate (I write on plates - nothing like the lustre of cool porcelain to fire the creative spirit). But too many reviewers fall back on "surreal" when they really mean something else. Sometimes, when they drop the S-Bomb, what they really mean is:
WEIRD: Surreal doesn't mean weird. A grownup dressed as a bunny rabbit playing with an assault rifle isn't necessarily surreal. It's weird. It may, perhaps, be more than that, but on its own it ain't surreal.
UNCANNY: If something smacks of the supernatural but isn't squarely in that camp, still maintaining an ambiguity of origin or a familiarity despite its strangeness, then it's uncanny, not surreal. A ghostly bunny telling our protagonist her future is not surreal. It may be uncanny. Depending on what the bunny says.
UNREAL: If something is fantastic, and blatantly not real, it is definitely not surreal. It is in fact the opposite of surreal.
REAL: If something is realistic, it is not surrealistic. I shouldn't need to explain this.
FUNNY: Don't even start me.
IMITATIVE OF CANONICAL SURREALIST ART: Dripping clocks etc don't make something surreal. Ohhh no.
UNINTELLIGIBLE: Just because you don't understand it, doesn't mean that you can slap it in the surreal basket (what would such a basket look like, I wonder).
POSTMODERN: Definitely not surreal, but I wouldn't advise using this term either, unless you really know what you mean by it and are fairly confident that your reader knows as well.
There are plenty of other adjectives which better describe a thing than 'surreal'. Look them up. It's been very very rare that I've seen a performance I would describe as surreal. In fact, I can't even think of one from the past few years. But the show I saw on Saturday night is the closest I can think of.
LALLY KATZ AND THE TERRIBLE MYSTERIES OF THE VOLCANO is an amazing piece of theatre, though it takes a while to really draw you into its net. It's written by, well, Lally Katz, and follows a male detective (also named Lally Katz) as he attempts to unravel a particularly dense and layered plot centring on a volcano, a childhood friend and the relationship between the two. Beyond that, it gets pretty hard to describe, but making sense of things is part of the fun.
Lally is accompanied by a lion named Lion as he returns to his childhood town of Canberra, an island under the dominating grip of the living volcano at its centre. This imagined "Canberra" is the home to all kinds of odd folks, including a Spanish club owner obsessed with the missing girl, a prostitute with burnt-out eyes, woodland animals, a young man who is constantly rooting but can't bring things to a natural climax, and a plenty more. As Lally becomes personally implicated in the enigmatic crime, he disappears into the volcano itself, and Lion must enlist some assistance to save his good buddy.
The play alternates between three timeframes: Lally's childhood, his return to the island, and Lion's rescue attempts. The intermingling of the three is expertly achieved, and Chris Kohn's direction is outstanding, bringing out an arresting array of theatrical techniques (including, in the second half, some which I suspect he picked up during his time in New York), and the pace never flags. But most importantly, despite the massive amounts of non-realistic imagery and narrative drama which are delivered at a bewildering rate, everything seems to follow a kind of internal logic. And it's this which causes me to feel that the piece can deservedly be called surreal. It's not unreal, but offers a reality which seems to exist beyond our normal levels of perception or linear thinking, and seems to tear at the fabric of reality to suggest a more profound but no less real something beyond.
In a way, it's one of the most 'true' shows I've seen in a long time. There's a lot of autobiographical stuff in there, but it's not delivered in a conventionally autobiographical manner. It produces 'Lally Katz' but is also reflective of the lack of distinction between author and text. I could waffle on at this theoretical level for a while, but I'd rather just encourage you to see it and we can discuss it from there. Class dismissed.

IDOL DAY DREAMINGS

You know, there occasionally comes a time when you question some of the life decisions you've made which have contributed to you being in the exact position you find yourself. You know the kind of moments I'm talking about: when you're bartering special favours for a piece of mouldy bread in a turkish prison; when you're getting beat senseless by a musclebound manbeast at the top of some jungle waterfall; when you're forced to take a dive for the no good multinational that put bread on your table for ten years then finally went under; or when you find yourself huddled awkwardly in a miserable heap as the dawn light breaks across the bleak carpark you've spent the last ten hours shivering in, loose gravel still stuck to your face and eyes bleary and bloodshot as you're pulled up from your concrete pillow by a voice barking "cameras coming by in ten seconds, move your sleeping bags outta the way!" And then pull yourself up into a squint-eyed and bewildered crouching position, a Channel 10 lens sweeps by scanning the legs of the hundreds of others standing around, legs about the same height as your own face right now. And yeah, you sort of question what you're doing with your life.

This wasn't the only time I pondered the meaning of my existence during the Idol auditions on Saturday. After all, there was plenty of time for reflection: about 10-12 hours, in fact. I arrived at 2am, hoping to bunker down for some nice al fresco napping, or perhaps reading at worst. I didn't bank on the fact that another hundred or so people would already be there, and when their number had doubled the noise meant that sleep wouldn't be forthcoming. Moreover, the combination of extreme cold, giddy anticipation/trepidation, physical discomfort and, most of all, boredom meant that going solo wasn't an option. You had to get along with your neighbour, if only to survive the night.

Now, the 2am-midday stretch is clearly the best thing about the Australian Idol Experience (tm). While the low turnout this year meant that anyone turning up by midday or so would get an audition (and apparently Sunday's auditions ended early due to lack of numbers), the elite Idol contestants are those I shall dub The Allnighters, and I am proud to count myself among their numbers. You meet all sorts, and for a distinctly antisocial person like myself it's pretty impressive that I spent ten hours with talking to strangers, many of whom were unafraid to bust some songs on me, and had a good time in the process.

That said (and I've said it elsewhere), there is an issue in trying to go from ten hours of this:

To one minute of this:

Icy concrete snap-freezing your arse while some glorious tennis centre architecture finds new and ingenious ways of realigning your spine: well, it's no warm bath and a cup of Horlicks. When the makeshift shanty town which was the Idol queue was finally roused at about 8am, we were manhandled into a rough and unruly line of standing bodies which snaked around the carpark, where we would stand, moving slowly forward, for about another two hours. Early in this set piece, the show's two hosts turned up.

I'm not as freaky in real life.

I'm WAAAY FREAKIER

Andrew G made a beeline for me so he could spring the probing journalistic question on my sorry behind: "So, do you have a lot of luck with the ladies?" In my addled and sleep-deprived state I somehow twisted this conversation around to, firstly, commenting on the similarities in our hairstyle (though his was screaming 'practised disarray' while mine murmured something like 'just bin lyin' in a cement ditch all night'...) and ending a minute later after a discussion on his large fanbase of male devotees had him quickly becoming uncomfortable with this new investigative direction our interview was taking.

As our appointed hour approached, we were all subjected to increasingly bizarre organisational routines of crowd management - kind of like fancy card shuffling, but with no sense of logic or coordination: Everyone in this row take 10 halfsteps towards the back, then allow the Garnier Segway team to ride past, then people at the north end of the group face north, then everyone jump, then you, yes you, do the caterpillar, and I'm just going to crouch down for a bit...

Did I mention the Garnier Team? Oh yes. They turned up at about 6am (I think), a group of attractive young models struggling to master the controls of some tricked-up segways.

Plastered all over the machines were sandwich-board type things advertising Garnier, and the teams themselves were there to offer free hair and/or make-up sessions to anyone up for it. I...well, I wasn't, not even for the sake of research.

But really, the Garnier folks were just padding when it came to the product placement side of the day, since the real breakout star of the queue was Ronald McDonald himself! Now, I've never seen him in the flesh (did you know there is only one appointed Ronald in each state at any one time? I guess it's to stop them accidentally coming face to face with one another and thereby causing the universe to collapse or something) but I was impressed that he was much older than I'd expected. And I wasn't alone in remarking upon his very funky red sideburns which could have just been loose clumps of red dread (yep, up close he's a natty mon) which had slipped down cheekside, but either way he gave the impression of a Ronald who was hoping to take a sideways step into the lucrative world of Elvis impersonation. Thankyouverrmuch.

Then came the filming: with such a large gathering, the show's producers couldn't help but take the opportunity for some promo/ad/filler bits to be shot. We were bunched up next to the gates which blocked the entrance to our final destination (the conference centre) and waiting to get into the warmth, but we had about half an hour in which we were instructed to scream "Melbourne! Yay!" (sic) again and again, while Andy G and James M ran through some bored sounding dialogue ('one thing is certain: you're about to experience the unforgettable singing of Melbourne" or some rubbish - Andy and Jim couldn't even pretend to be interested in what they were saying. I thought "Melbourne!" was the wrong choice, since the couple of hundred tired and shambling bodies pressing up against the gates would seem to be a more obvious phrase like "BRAAAAINS...BRAAAAAAAAINS" but some producers lack that creative spark. We went through the routine and made it through the gates, where another few hours of waiting were laid on us.

This was a nice time; a time to sit down, grab a coffee, warm up inside the cavernous conference centre and chat with your newfound friends. This was really helpful, as inside everyone was curling up like a millipede and crying "NOOOOOO! I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS!". Maybe it was just me. But the little door at the end of the room, through which contestants were being sent ten at a time, well it kind of felt like the doors to Hell.

It took a long time for me to make it through. At one point I received a call from a photographer, who'd been organised to cover the event, and wanted my shot. Now, up to this point I'd been incognito. But when the photographer for a major daily pulls you up to sit in the front row of around 2000 people just so he can snap your mug, you kind of wonder if the cover's been blown. I did get a few odd looks from producers, and Andrew G reassessed his earlier appraisal of me, but nothing immediately untoward happened.

And then my name was called along with those of my erstwhile companions and we all filed into a little waiting room where nobody even dared to breath. We sat, avoiding eye contact, waiting for our chance to step through a pair of doors into the audition room. One by one the others were called, disappeared for a few minutes, then came out rejected. They didn't seem too disappointed; after all, of the couple of hundred who'd gone before us today, only a handful had emerged clutching the coveted pink form (like a Wonka Golden Ticket but a bit more camp). And then it was my turn in the hot seat.

The hot seat turned out to be a big yellow gaffer X on the floor of a large grey room - grey walls, floor, ceiling, and grey expressions on the two judges who sat behind a featureless desk waiting for me to sing. Didn't want to know anything about me, just what I sounded like.

And thanks to the many who offered suggestions as to my song choice. Some faves which weren't included in the last post's comments include Milkshake by Kelis or anything by Kraftwerk, but I decided to go with the one song I knew the lyrics for...George Michael's Faith. The only reason I know this song is because of a great episode of Louis Theroux's Weird Weekends I saw years back, in which Louis visits the home of a family of fundamentalist Christians. While he's sitting round the living room table with them (think wood panelling, cream throw rugs, cableknit sweaters), they pull out the guitar for an old fashioned God-fearin' singalong, and ask if he knows anything he could play. He says that he only knows one song, called Faith, which obviously gets their vigorous approval. But when he begins (well I guess it would be nice, if I could touch your body, I know not everybody has got a body like you...)...well, it always gets me laughing. And so I thought I'd lay the same lyrics on the judges.

They seemed to approve, if only in a slightly shocked and bewildered way. If I remember correctly, there was a little eyebrows-raised moment, and some exchanging of glances, but they asked me for another song as well. I hadn't really banked on that, so I went for a track by Icelandic folky songstress Emiliana Torrini. They hadn't heard of her.

Oh.

Should have guessed that.

And they weren't that impressed. "Very interesting interpretations, but not what we're looking for this year."

And thus ends my story. Needless to say, I will not be the next Australian Idol.

A Whole New World

Ah.

It's you.

I see.

Ahem.

Well, you're probably a little confused and/or irate. And I'm not making any excuses, no. So I've been absent of late, not putting in my share, and I know, I know, two-way street and all that, but you have to understand that I'm sincerely trying to make this work.

I am.

It's just that I've been so busy. I've had a whole bunch of new jobs this year, including writing media stuff for a major theatre company, and running a course at a university, and all that on top of everything I already had running and now...well, now I've just been given another job, one which will pretty much replace some of the others, and it's a full time gig, but you have to understand that I'm doing all this for us, so that we can be financially stable and not have to worry about money or anything. You understand, don't you?

Anyway, I've just been given my first task in the new job, and I'm going to ask for your help here.

I have to audition for Australian Idol on Saturday.

Yeah.

I know.

Seriously.

And then I have to whip up a story to run in a major Australian newspaper the next day. On, I guess, the experience and all that. So...

I need you to give me some ideas as to a choice of song. I'm hardly the world's best singer, but I can hold a tune. So hit me with your best shot and I'll ruminate.

Help me, internet. Help us all.

Yours,
(the ironically named)
AHFLV

Dream Four

THE DREAM:

These two Canadian white boys run a thoroughly half-arsed and downright stupid lecture on the A-Z of hip hop, educating similarly ignorant fools on how to be the baddest rappin' mofos this side of tha East Side. By the show's end you'll know what's so wack about tofu, be down wit' some hip hop exercise workouts and be crying bitter tears as you realise the terrible mistake of forgetting about Dre. The two performers are gleefully aware of their complete inadequacy as hip hop avatars, and work this side of things to excellent effect, relying instead on wit and surprise to counter their natural deficiencies. Anyone with any knowledge of hip hop (or comedy for that matter) will probably start the show deeply skeptical if not plain contemptuous, but few won't be won over by the final result. And of course there's plenty of bad jokes, puns and hokey physical comedy in there too, so don't go expecting comedy gold. Rather, it's gloriously trashy, silly and uneven but the net effect is hard to fault. The show's called Hip Hop 4 Dummeez, which perfectly summarises it, too.

Well, one of the weirder dreams of late, so we've gotten in that maestro of weirdness, Mr David Lynch, who'll be explaining some of the deeper symbolism of this thing. Hi Mr David Lynch.

Well hello.

So: what have you got?

Well, here's my take on it, AHFLV. There's a man with penguins for hands whose nose is dripping constantly, but he doesn't seem aware of it. A staccato stabbing piano soundtrack cuts in and out of consciousness, perhaps conjuring images of it being played by a recently deceased pope or perhaps some sentient balsa wood. Perhaps both, in a duet. You decide. Can we get some more light on the penguin hands? No, strike that, I like it better the way it was. I once held an exhibition of art made entirely from rotting meat, so that the flies and maggots which were attracted to the works became part of the art's meaning. This was well back in the day, of course. There's a feeling of two-dimensionality to Penguin Hands, so we'll have him reading a book and the book comes to life and we find ourselves in an operating theatre where all of the surgical instruments are made of thorny rose stems, so that the white-clad surgeons are constantly pricking their fingers. They don't seem to notice the tiny blood spots appearing on their gloved hands - but they're surgeons, they're professionals, they're probably used to it. Probably hopped up on painkillers, too. You notice, though, lying on that cold metal slab as they move towards you. Wait! Is this an operating theatre or a morgue? Are these people surgeons or bowler-hatted clowns? No no no, I would never use bowler hats, done to death. But maybe death is the point. Probably not. Don't dwell on it. It's just a dream, son.

Thank you for your contribution.

Not at all, a pleasure. You have a nice day.

Dream Three

THE DREAM:

For today's dream, I tried to get a crazy wild-eyed gypsy to interpret my somnambulent wanderings, but there were none available. I went for the second-tier gypsy, namely Natalie Wood as Louise 'Gypsy Rose Lee' Hovick in Gypsy (1962) but again came up with nothing. So, today's guest dream analyst will be a Natalie Wood Impersonator sitting on a staircase.

I have no idea what this dream could mean.

Ah well. Maybe all will be revealed if you pay a visit to Captain Frodo's show at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. It is limb-snappingly awesome and perhaps the most limb-snappingly awesomest shows I've seen in a long while. Top marks. Highly recommended. Must see. It's called The Adventures of Captain Frodo: Tales of a Modern Day Showman.