Hello friends!
If you're missing the shennanigans that went on here, why don't you check out this monstrosity:
The Spontaneity Review.
Would love to see you there.
Cheers
Patrick
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Noodle maverick
As befits our new trendy inner-city lifestyles, we've been wandering around to various cultural events, including the Night Noodle Markets at Hyde Park, as part of some sort of international food festival. Is it just me that thinks the Night Noodle Markets are an awesome name for a gay bar? I think it might be,
After lining up for an hour for some Malaysian cuisine, I'm happy to say the food didn't disappoint. However, after grabbing my delicious plate, we went in search of a bottle of wine. Now I have the somewhat erroneous belief (I originally wrote that as "a somewhat erogenous belief) that I am a wine maverick - a rebel who spits on the rules and drives his motorbike over the trite laws of "wine matching".
Wrong kind of maverick.
Namely, that despite the age old belief that you drink Sauvignon Blanc with seafood, sometimes I'll flip right out and drink a spicy Shiraz with my flounder and octopus salad. Yeah. Fear me.
To my horror, however, I have to set aside my punk vigneron's garb and settle in the lounge chair of conformity, because I find myself naturally matching wines and foods. It's become instinctive. For example, at a lovely Turkish restaurant on Enmore road, I had a bottle of the Logan's Gewurztraminer, and nearly died and went to complementary heaven.
So with my truly spectacular bowl of Malaysian curry, I could only think one thing: Riesling. Some tart citrus and fresh minerals belonged with this meal. It was so perfect, that I started to believe that the tale of Cinderella was actually derived from this very meal before me: just replace Prince Charming with a bowl of curry and the glass slipper with a bottle of Riesling. Elementary.
But what did we discover? That the CHEAPEST bottle of wine is $40. And it's Brown Brothers. You've heard me mention the travesty that is Brown Brothers before, i'm sure of it. What a ridiculous state of affairs for a fucking food festival. Good food NEEDS good wine, it's a fucking law of nature. I sound angry now, I know. But at the time, I couldn't even muster this sense of outrage. Imagine it's Christmas morning, and little Timmy comes running down the stairs, his fat little cheeks rosy with anticipation and excitement. For weeks now he's been eyeing off the enormous package that's been sitting under the tree, with his name written on the card. What could it be? Perhaps some kind of motorised jeep toy monstrosity, or lego, or a horse! He just doesn't know. With trembling hands, under the benevolent eyes of his smiling, placid, cow-like parents, he unwraps the ribbon, and then tears off the paper! What could he possibly have been given for Christmas?
That's right. It's brain cancer. And he's going to die in two weeks.
Imagine his face. Now imagine his fat pre-teen face morphing into my cheekboned travesty of a visage, but KEEP the look of dumb disappointment and betrayal.
That was my face at the Noodle Markets.
After lining up for an hour for some Malaysian cuisine, I'm happy to say the food didn't disappoint. However, after grabbing my delicious plate, we went in search of a bottle of wine. Now I have the somewhat erroneous belief (I originally wrote that as "a somewhat erogenous belief) that I am a wine maverick - a rebel who spits on the rules and drives his motorbike over the trite laws of "wine matching".
Wrong kind of maverick.
Namely, that despite the age old belief that you drink Sauvignon Blanc with seafood, sometimes I'll flip right out and drink a spicy Shiraz with my flounder and octopus salad. Yeah. Fear me.
To my horror, however, I have to set aside my punk vigneron's garb and settle in the lounge chair of conformity, because I find myself naturally matching wines and foods. It's become instinctive. For example, at a lovely Turkish restaurant on Enmore road, I had a bottle of the Logan's Gewurztraminer, and nearly died and went to complementary heaven.
So with my truly spectacular bowl of Malaysian curry, I could only think one thing: Riesling. Some tart citrus and fresh minerals belonged with this meal. It was so perfect, that I started to believe that the tale of Cinderella was actually derived from this very meal before me: just replace Prince Charming with a bowl of curry and the glass slipper with a bottle of Riesling. Elementary.
But what did we discover? That the CHEAPEST bottle of wine is $40. And it's Brown Brothers. You've heard me mention the travesty that is Brown Brothers before, i'm sure of it. What a ridiculous state of affairs for a fucking food festival. Good food NEEDS good wine, it's a fucking law of nature. I sound angry now, I know. But at the time, I couldn't even muster this sense of outrage. Imagine it's Christmas morning, and little Timmy comes running down the stairs, his fat little cheeks rosy with anticipation and excitement. For weeks now he's been eyeing off the enormous package that's been sitting under the tree, with his name written on the card. What could it be? Perhaps some kind of motorised jeep toy monstrosity, or lego, or a horse! He just doesn't know. With trembling hands, under the benevolent eyes of his smiling, placid, cow-like parents, he unwraps the ribbon, and then tears off the paper! What could he possibly have been given for Christmas?
That's right. It's brain cancer. And he's going to die in two weeks.
Imagine his face. Now imagine his fat pre-teen face morphing into my cheekboned travesty of a visage, but KEEP the look of dumb disappointment and betrayal.
That was my face at the Noodle Markets.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Review: Gig by Simon Armitage
I used to be in a poetry boyband, called the "Bracket Creeps". We travelled around Australia and performed parodic comedy verse, wearing purple suits and alter-ego's. My name was Tad Bracket. Like all boy bands, we broke up badly and separated to nurse our respective addictions and grudges.
So when I read Armitage's series of short recollections about the juxtaposition and confluence that rock music has had with his poetry career, I found myself both intrigued... and empathic. Simon Armitage is quite a big deal for a poet, mostly in the UK. I couldn't think of a single Australian poet who has enjoyed the low level of fame that he has. His verse is good, but I'm not a huge fan. His autobiographical prose, however, is both expertly crafted and moving. It is funny and warm, with that feeling you get where you're drinking a beer and someone is telling you some really fantastic stories.
I also found myself thinking hard about music and its effect on artists. I've really never met an artist in any field, who isn't fiercely in love with music. In many ways, 'Gig' is a homage to music and the effect it has had on Armitage's life. I also felt as if the author is trying to work out exactly why he never made music his career, and ended up a poet. It goes all the way back to a divergence, a splitting of destinies. It is interesting that he never speaks with the reverence and intelligence about poets, as he does about musicians. But then again, this isn't what the book is about.
I can't play musical instruments. Once in high-school, I was sent to the principal's office by the music teacher, who thought I was mocking her with my attempts to play the guitar. I believe I have a decent singing voice, but I've never really tried it out. When I was a child, my voice was apparently nice enough that I may have been gelded in rural Italy. I once starred in 'A Christmas Carol' as Tiny Tim or whatever, the little crippled boy. I sang Eric Clapton's "Tears in heaven". That one experience put me off Clapton's solo work for decades, despite an early love of Cream.
Despite all this, I somehow still decide every few months, that I should learn an instrument. My latest yearn was for the accordion, which persisted long enough for me to look at prices on ebay. But in the end, I never really follow it through, because music has always been a very private thing for me. It's blissing out on 5am train-trips to work, listening to Beirut's 'Nantes', it's bopping along to Ziggy Stardust while I write comedy and it's singing the 'stones while washing up, loud enough to have my awful neighbours start screaming back. Yeah, i'm rock and roll. Domestic hygiene = Street Fighting Man.
So when I read Armitage's series of short recollections about the juxtaposition and confluence that rock music has had with his poetry career, I found myself both intrigued... and empathic. Simon Armitage is quite a big deal for a poet, mostly in the UK. I couldn't think of a single Australian poet who has enjoyed the low level of fame that he has. His verse is good, but I'm not a huge fan. His autobiographical prose, however, is both expertly crafted and moving. It is funny and warm, with that feeling you get where you're drinking a beer and someone is telling you some really fantastic stories.
I also found myself thinking hard about music and its effect on artists. I've really never met an artist in any field, who isn't fiercely in love with music. In many ways, 'Gig' is a homage to music and the effect it has had on Armitage's life. I also felt as if the author is trying to work out exactly why he never made music his career, and ended up a poet. It goes all the way back to a divergence, a splitting of destinies. It is interesting that he never speaks with the reverence and intelligence about poets, as he does about musicians. But then again, this isn't what the book is about.
I can't play musical instruments. Once in high-school, I was sent to the principal's office by the music teacher, who thought I was mocking her with my attempts to play the guitar. I believe I have a decent singing voice, but I've never really tried it out. When I was a child, my voice was apparently nice enough that I may have been gelded in rural Italy. I once starred in 'A Christmas Carol' as Tiny Tim or whatever, the little crippled boy. I sang Eric Clapton's "Tears in heaven". That one experience put me off Clapton's solo work for decades, despite an early love of Cream.
Despite all this, I somehow still decide every few months, that I should learn an instrument. My latest yearn was for the accordion, which persisted long enough for me to look at prices on ebay. But in the end, I never really follow it through, because music has always been a very private thing for me. It's blissing out on 5am train-trips to work, listening to Beirut's 'Nantes', it's bopping along to Ziggy Stardust while I write comedy and it's singing the 'stones while washing up, loud enough to have my awful neighbours start screaming back. Yeah, i'm rock and roll. Domestic hygiene = Street Fighting Man.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Sexy Tales of Paleontology - Opening this week
Sexy Tales is opening THIS WEEK. ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
ARGHHHHHHH.... No it's going fine. Brilliant.
So amazingly proud of the cast and crew, everyone is working their little theatre butts offs, to somehow get this ridiculous lumbering quirk-mole of a play off the ground.
That said, book tickets and see show times and dates: here.
Come opening night, we'll have a grand time. That's just a few days away, on the 16th!
The Sydney Fringe is really exciting- already I have seen the theatre phenomenon, Stories from the 428 at Sidetrack Theatre. Very good. I'm also looking forward to Zetland at the same theatre, by Jasper Marlow. And my fellow Boiler Roomies, notably Combat Fatigue by Alison Rooke and The Hideous Demise of Detective Slate by Alli Sebastian Wolf.
Go on, wallow in it!
ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
ARGHHHHHHH.... No it's going fine. Brilliant.
So amazingly proud of the cast and crew, everyone is working their little theatre butts offs, to somehow get this ridiculous lumbering quirk-mole of a play off the ground.
That said, book tickets and see show times and dates: here.
Come opening night, we'll have a grand time. That's just a few days away, on the 16th!
The Sydney Fringe is really exciting- already I have seen the theatre phenomenon, Stories from the 428 at Sidetrack Theatre. Very good. I'm also looking forward to Zetland at the same theatre, by Jasper Marlow. And my fellow Boiler Roomies, notably Combat Fatigue by Alison Rooke and The Hideous Demise of Detective Slate by Alli Sebastian Wolf.
Go on, wallow in it!
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Sexy Tales of Paleontology - sneak preview
Time before the Sydney Fringe is rapidly diminishing like a chocolate boat sailing into a sauna. Therefore have a sneak peak at my play, Sexy Tales of Paleontology.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Joss Whedon's "Dark Place"
Not to be confused with:
On Sunday I had the pleasure of seeing Joss Whedon, the creator of such fantastic shows as "Buffy", "Firefly" and "Dollhouse", speak at the Opera House. I'm a huge fan of Joss - he's the name on the tip of my tongue when I talk about redeeming television. I was prepared to be amused and interested - that seemed a safe bet to me. What I wasn't quite as ready for, was to be so intellectually provoked. I've been reviewing my own writing practices at greater depth than I have for quite a while.
After Firefly was cancelled, Joss learnt the true meaning of 'grief'. Might sound melodramatic, but I understand.
Much of what Joss talked about was how he writes from a "dark place", something he was able to categorise in a conversation with Stephen Sondheim. Sondheim says he always writes yearning. Joss, after originally giving the answer 'adolescent girls with super-powers', realised all his writing is about helplessness.
It's fascinating to be able to have a look at his work, and pluck that out. I've always responded very strongly to the comedic element in his shows - it's what keeps it strong and supple.
It's hard to turn that kind of microscope back on myself - probably because I focus so much on the comedy I write. What's my dark place? Do I have one?
I didn't put Garth Marenghi at the start of this post simply because of a hilarious name comparison. No sirree. If you haven't watched it, it's a hilarious comedy hospital/sci-fi spoof from the UK. It's damn funny. It's comedy. I also find Buffy hilarious, but the genres are very very different. But the writer of Garth Marenghi - where does his writing come from? Is it a simple need to entertain? (I have that in me) or is it some kind of statement on absurdism, nihilism, existentialism. Does it rate less than Buffy? Do we judge writers on their dark place?
What if my dark place is really just a shadowy grotto, populated by cartoon animals?
Well, I asked a lot of questions today, in an annoying, segmented kind of post.
*Puts hands in pockets and walks away whistling*
I learnt a bunch about writing from Buffy. First lesson, consequence. Watch it, and see. Also, vampires.
On Sunday I had the pleasure of seeing Joss Whedon, the creator of such fantastic shows as "Buffy", "Firefly" and "Dollhouse", speak at the Opera House. I'm a huge fan of Joss - he's the name on the tip of my tongue when I talk about redeeming television. I was prepared to be amused and interested - that seemed a safe bet to me. What I wasn't quite as ready for, was to be so intellectually provoked. I've been reviewing my own writing practices at greater depth than I have for quite a while.
After Firefly was cancelled, Joss learnt the true meaning of 'grief'. Might sound melodramatic, but I understand.
Much of what Joss talked about was how he writes from a "dark place", something he was able to categorise in a conversation with Stephen Sondheim. Sondheim says he always writes yearning. Joss, after originally giving the answer 'adolescent girls with super-powers', realised all his writing is about helplessness.
It's fascinating to be able to have a look at his work, and pluck that out. I've always responded very strongly to the comedic element in his shows - it's what keeps it strong and supple.
It's hard to turn that kind of microscope back on myself - probably because I focus so much on the comedy I write. What's my dark place? Do I have one?
I didn't put Garth Marenghi at the start of this post simply because of a hilarious name comparison. No sirree. If you haven't watched it, it's a hilarious comedy hospital/sci-fi spoof from the UK. It's damn funny. It's comedy. I also find Buffy hilarious, but the genres are very very different. But the writer of Garth Marenghi - where does his writing come from? Is it a simple need to entertain? (I have that in me) or is it some kind of statement on absurdism, nihilism, existentialism. Does it rate less than Buffy? Do we judge writers on their dark place?
What if my dark place is really just a shadowy grotto, populated by cartoon animals?
Well, I asked a lot of questions today, in an annoying, segmented kind of post.
*Puts hands in pockets and walks away whistling*
I learnt a bunch about writing from Buffy. First lesson, consequence. Watch it, and see. Also, vampires.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Don't judge me by my cover
No, this is not a feel good, motivational teen post catered towards the unfortunate looking. But if you are reading, chin up, ugmo's. High waisted pants are in!
One of the burdens of my job as a literary icon, is that i'm naturally under a lot of scrutiny for my tastes. People see me on the streets and whatever book is clasped under my pale, skeletal arm, suddenly becomes the talk of the town. In that vein, i'm totally going to bring back opium balls into fashion.
So you can imagine my mortification when I started carrying this book around.
I realised that if it was just the bear, I would have been fine. Bears are great. If it was the bear and the insipid protagonist ab, you could be forgiven for assuming it's a rip roaring fantasy buddy story. But its the combination of bear, ab and BUSTY IRISH LASS that throws this into the realms of embarrassment.
The shame is that the book is by one of my favourite fantasy authors, David Farland. The upside is that the book itself screams "FIRST BOOK" and has all the dripping hallmarks of a new fantasy author. You know the whole "show, don't tell" rule? He tries to circumvent that by these "teaching robots" that characters habitually wear, which "download" information into them. It doesn't work.
So if that's not enough, then what about my experience with this book:
"But Jim Crace isn't embarrassing? He's a fantastic writer! That's good literature!" SHUT UP YOU WERE NEVER THERE FOR ME WHEN I WAS GROWING UP.
No what happened, is what I call the New Zealand factor. As I'm reading it, smug in my knowledge that my book was A. Set in Europe and B. Full of large words, a bunch of schoolgirls on the train start whispering to each other, at decibels that would make dogs cry into their cups. I had managed to put in my ipod headphones and forget to turn on the music, because I'm a motivated person.
"Omg, is that guy reading a book called sex?"
"Omg he is. That's so embarrassing."
They were right. It was. And I never read again.
One of the burdens of my job as a literary icon, is that i'm naturally under a lot of scrutiny for my tastes. People see me on the streets and whatever book is clasped under my pale, skeletal arm, suddenly becomes the talk of the town. In that vein, i'm totally going to bring back opium balls into fashion.
So you can imagine my mortification when I started carrying this book around.
I realised that if it was just the bear, I would have been fine. Bears are great. If it was the bear and the insipid protagonist ab, you could be forgiven for assuming it's a rip roaring fantasy buddy story. But its the combination of bear, ab and BUSTY IRISH LASS that throws this into the realms of embarrassment.
The shame is that the book is by one of my favourite fantasy authors, David Farland. The upside is that the book itself screams "FIRST BOOK" and has all the dripping hallmarks of a new fantasy author. You know the whole "show, don't tell" rule? He tries to circumvent that by these "teaching robots" that characters habitually wear, which "download" information into them. It doesn't work.
So if that's not enough, then what about my experience with this book:
"But Jim Crace isn't embarrassing? He's a fantastic writer! That's good literature!" SHUT UP YOU WERE NEVER THERE FOR ME WHEN I WAS GROWING UP.
No what happened, is what I call the New Zealand factor. As I'm reading it, smug in my knowledge that my book was A. Set in Europe and B. Full of large words, a bunch of schoolgirls on the train start whispering to each other, at decibels that would make dogs cry into their cups. I had managed to put in my ipod headphones and forget to turn on the music, because I'm a motivated person.
"Omg, is that guy reading a book called sex?"
"Omg he is. That's so embarrassing."
They were right. It was. And I never read again.
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