For most guys, dance isn’t their first language. Leave them standing long enough in a nightclub and eventually their screen saver will activate. This is called the Terry Two Step. First shuffle left / then shuffle right / your arms shouldn’t leave your sides all night. Repeat until magically laid. What happened to all the ones we learnt in high school? The heel/toe polka, the pride of erin, the Mexican hat dance? It’s devolved into the Australian jacket dance, where blokes try and lure women by shifting around a stack of wallets. Break dancing will consist of tripping over as they walk to the bar while a frenzied pat down to find keys will be offered up as the macarena. The song says shake it like a polaroid picture, not fiddle with it like a digital camera! If the dance floor is musical speed dating then you’ve got to put your best club foot forward.

Shimmying is all smoke and mirror balls. Like most things in life, when in doubt, just act like you know what you’re doing. On the dance floor I become Captain Busy, throwing shapes and jamming genres together like Crunkenstein, the line between irony and earnestness up and down like a stereo equalizer. Spinning and kicking, sliding and dipping – i’m a mime routine of a horny octopus making soup on a bouncy castle. I enjoy the thrill of not really knowing what I’m doing, but thinking that I may appear like I do; the cosmic sex bluff of throwing some Napolean Dynamite VS Spike Jonze in the Praise You film clip spaz shapes with such rigour that they could be taken seriously, or better yet, sexily. Usually, this isn’t the case. I’ve been told that I make people around me dance out of time, like a rhythmic black hole. One girl said dancing with me was like being double bounced on a trampoline.

The urban discotheque can be intimidating. From the religious zest of the Nutbush to pro-am rockabilly swingers and Kate Bush interpretive rock eisteddfods, men can be forgiven for feeling trapped inside a show where they’ve missed all the rehearsals. What’s that saying? Every Good Boy Deserves Funk. Whatever your demographic I believe the mojo is within you, and there’s only one way to get it working again. Fellas, here’s a quick dance lesson from me: Move. Your. Fucking. Hips. Men have been blissfully unaware of their hips for centuries, yet wonder why they continue to groove like a depressed robot. The hip bone’s connected to the soul power. Once you’ve got your hips working then your legs will follow, and everything will gel. If dance is the language of the soul, then it’s worth seeing what your soul has to say. Sure, it might just be ’shit…shit…shit’ but anything’s better than silence.

ISSUE 75
Monday February 8, 2010

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LT BIRTHDAYS

Happy Birthday Seth Green 36 today!
Happy Birthday Alonzo Mourning 40 today!
Happy Birthday Garry Coleman 42 today!

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AUSTRALIAN FILM NEWS

Inspired by the success of Where The Wild Things Are and Fantastic Mr Fox, Australian director Baz Luhrmann has begun production on a 240 million dollar version of Australian children’s book Grug. Angus Sampson is touted to play the burrawang tree turned haystack with a face with Rose Byrne cast as cara the snake. Luhrmann says the challenge will be sculpting the relatively simple plotlines into today’s standard three and a half hours for a feature film. He has suggested the series may be condensed so that Grug has a birthday, plays soccer and finds a rainbow all in the one day.

Not to be outdone, Warwick Thornton director of Sampson and Delilah, is planning a gritty portrayal of children’s classic Clifford The Big Red Dog. The adaptation will be a tribute to the wide range of megafauna that roamed the Australian outback 50, 000 years ago. Clifford will be a mythical dingo that appears to the Anangu people of Alice Springs.

Meanwhile Nick Cave has also jumped on the children’s book bandwagon, penning a script for a feature film adaptation of Eric Hill’s ‘Where’s Spot?’ Cave’s script sees one man’s fifty year quest around the world to find his beloved cocker spaniel, stolen by a drug cartel on his tenth birthday. The big budget epic is rumoured to be utilising state of the art 4-D technology, where audiences will be able to lift up the movie screen to see whether spot is behind it. Critics have dubbed the technology a sham, saying an usher dawdling through the theatre in a dog costume is hardly revolutionary.

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TINY LEGENDS – Moments that fell down the back of the couch.

From Caseymoira Freeman, Melbourne.

“A couple of weeks ago I was walking home from work feeling quite miserable and sorry for myself. All of a sudden, a pigeon that had been nesting on the ground flew up my sensible work skirt (tapered in at the knee, very librarian) and got stuck flapping about up there. I was quite distressed and tried to talk the pigeon out of my skirt but he would not listen. I ended up having to lift my skirt up over my hips on the corner of Queen and La Trobe streets to show all my pins in tights. The pigeon fell to the ground, looked at me and shook his little head and flew off. All while I was standing there with my skirt almost over my head. I was incredibly embarrassed but could not stop laughing. I straightened my skirt and jumped on the number 8 home still rather flush from my encounter with the pigeon.”

EMAIL ME YOUR TINY LEGENDS.

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INANIMATE OBJECT BEREAVEMENT NOTICES

******
DEAD
******

From Laura, Canberra.

“I would like to commemorate the life of Ewan, my Ipod, who sadly succumbed to disease and died today. He was very hardy and came with me on a lot of adventures, including one on the high seas in the Young Endeavour, during which he fell out of my locker during bad weather multiple times and broke his backlight. He remained faithful despite his failing health and old age and never let on that he couldn’t keep up with the hip new touchscreen kids, even when I accidentally flung him across the room at the gym. He will be sorely missed.”

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WE PRAY FOR THEIR RECALIBRATION
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SEND YOUR BEREAVEMENT NOTICES TO THIS ADDRESS.

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GET A WRIGGLE ON GOOGLET!
Phrases people have typed into Google to land on my website:

“brett lee speedos”
“who was the little girl who sang got three pockets in my overals ”
“chupa chups photo teddy bear as freud ”
“improvise thermos”
“i have finished uni and are now on the dole and cant be fuked doing anything”
“groin pain from ride on mower”
“how much does sandra sully weigh”
“horse drugs/nuttelex”
“where do i kiss my bride first on bedroom”
“golden gaytime availability 1999”
“is simon and garfield married”
“when do you sign with xoxo?”
“eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!”
“topless girls playing cricket”
”lo-fi indie folk whimsical gentle fey“
“legally what time can you mow the lawn on a sunday”
“patti smith takes off socks”

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TIME IS CHEESE AND MOUSE IS HUNGRY!

For those of you who haven’t tuned into ‘Lime Champions’ yet, here is some YouTube love. An intimate portrait of Hugh Jackman, as told to Damien Lawlor.

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A GIGGLE OF GIGS

MELBOURNE
25 Mar 2010 – 18 April 2010 Songs From The 86 Tram – Melbourne International Comedy Festival. Melbourne, Victoria. (Acacia Room, Victoria Hotel, Little Collins St. 9:45pm). For bookings click HERE.

OUTSIDE MELBOURNE
28 Apr 2010 The Front (solo) w/ Josh Earl, Canberra, Australian Capital Territory.
29 Apr 2010 The Vanguard (solo) w/ Josh Earl (Sydney Comedy Festival), Newtown, New South Wales.
5 May 2010 Grace Emily (solo) w/ Josh Earl, Adelaide, South Australia.
6 May 2010 Alley Cat (solo) w/ Josh Earl, Hobart, Tasmania.
7 May 2010 Royal Oak (solo) w/ Josh Earl, Launceston, Tasmania.
9 May 2010 Brisbane Powerhouse (solo), Brisbane, Queensland.

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STORYTIME

FEATURE ARTICLE TAKEN FROM ‘THE BIG ISSUE’ 2009.

The Bedroom Philosopher has proved impossible to pin down for this article. Initially, his publicist gave me the run-around, posting me a phone book sized list of questions I wasn’t allowed to ask including ‘Who are you again?’ I then had to deal with his manager who insisted we do the interview by text message because The Bedroom Philosopher was having a ‘bad sideburn day’. After busting him in a record store putting his albums next to Sarah Blasko’s and making them kiss, the ‘manager’ turned out to be The Bedroom Philosopher himself with an American accent.

Finally, after much to and fro-ing, I’m sipping home-brew on a swingseat at his nan and pop’s place in Tasmania. Fortunately enough, his Nan seems to understand him better than anyone. “He’s always been a very thoughtful and talented young man,” she says. “He was a born entertainer. Once we were at our local Christmas parade, and next thing I know he’s grabbed a shopping trolley, put on a helmet and become part of the float. He’s very good on the armpit – he can do all sorts of tunes.”

The Bedroom Philosopher first found fame (of sorts) in 2002 with a musical comedy segment on Triple J. He performed in festivals and released his debut album In Bed With My Doona. In 2006 his song ‘I’m So Post Modern’ landed in JJJ’s Hottest 100 and he became a share-househould name. His latest aural offering Brown & Orange, described by Pitchfork as “the disc was missing,” offers a shotgun marriage of music and humour, laced with cassette samples from the 70’s.

An ex girlfriend, who insists on anonyminity, says: “He’s a lovely guy, but I’ve never met anyone as unsure of themselves. He makes Gollum look like Anthony Robbins. He wants to be a musician and comedian but I keep telling him, men can’t multi-task! His songs were funny the first time but I needed six months of Beatles therapy to get the choruses out of my head. I was the first person in Australia to take out a restraining order against music. You can’t play his album within 50 metres of me.”

Throughout his career, it seems, the Bedroom Philosopher has left a trail of broken hearts, from groupies wanting a hug to venue-bookers wanting a crowd. One ‘Philosopherette’, who hasn’t left the house in 10 years and is about to publish her first book of status updates. says he is constant blog-fodder. “He looks a bit like Jemaine from Flight of The Conchords,” she reveals, before adding: “Oh, sorry, I thought we were talking about Scod from Tripod. God I love Tim Minchin…”

This year The Bedroom Philosopher won the Director’s Choice award for his Melborne International Comedy Festival show called Songs From The 86 Tram. In the show, he portrayed a number of public transport characters including a hipster, bogan, junkie…and Nan. The sell-out season was derailed when he slammed his bike into a car door on the 86 tram line, breaking his humerus. Upon receiving his award he declared irony dead, adding ‘The darker parts of life are beautiful, and, if you look at them from far enough away, hilarious.’

After agreeing to meet me in an Internet chatroom I asked him whether the crash was an accident or a cry for help. “No comment,” he said and walked out. I was then sent a fax stating: “The Bedroom Philosopher is tired from media and did a streetpress interview last year.”

One music industry spokesman had this to say: “What he’s doing is very original and very funny. I love it. I think he’s the smartest, freshest act around. But I’m not going to touch it. He’s created this gigantic one-off niche for himself that no-one can reach. It must be like the Grand Canyon in there. It’s got its own gravitational pull. He’s too wacky for the music scene and too musical for the comedy industry. Seriously, if I were him I’d consider going electro or writing a self-help cookbook.”

According to his ever stoic e-zine LapTopping The Bedroom Philosopher has recorded an album of the 86 Tram songs which he aims to release as he reprises the show at the Melbourne Comedy Festival. The album features, his five piece band ‘The Awkwardstra.’ Bass player and naturopathist Andy “Nature Boy” Hazel said that he was very excited about the album and if the Bedroom Philosopher was reading this could he give him a call?

“We all met at a self-help group called indie snobs anonymous,” Hazel recalls. “We’ve all left really serious rock bands to play sitar and flute and sing songs about real things like Golden Gaytimes and self-pity. We’ve shaved our beards and learned to smile again. I’m so glad we found the Philosopher. We can all put ‘carer’ on our tax returns.”

THE END

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LAYTOPING IS MISPELLED, AND FREE! WHAT A GREAT GIFT IDEA, AND IT’LL CUT YOUR ENERGY BILLS IN HALF! SEND IT TO A FRIEND!
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NOTICE AND DISCLAIMER:

THIS BLIP IS INTENDED FOR THE FLOON OF THE GLUG and may raid bins that are on fire and you did it Kristy. If ping are pong the nintendo recipient, goo are hereby sliced that any party candles, clinkers, nun punks or oblong secretary knitting of this plaid slack or the nut bunch is strictly dacked in the mosh pit of Flistle Flux.
IF YOU HAVE RECEIVED THIS BISCUIT IN TERROR, please notify the Mum by primeval yawning and OCD vacuuming bonanza and destroy all eggs in an omelette of despair and a hurried game of the one dice masterpiece YOGGO!
THIS CACKHANDED EMAIL CISTERN IS FOR WIZZY MCBUSINESS ONLY. It’s not yours so HANDS OFF ROSS! Stilts may be borrowed and your name recorded with camp wang officials but no grass sledding after dark unless prior permission is obtained in the form of hot pudding from a super Jesus, mega Buddha, maxi Mohammed or other upsized deity. Offensive, inappropriate or illegal material will smell like corpses and is best thrown at a Dad. Except as required by Stuart Law, THIS COMPANY IS TIRED AND SNAPPY AND WOULD RATHER PLAY ONLINE HEARTS THAN DEAL WITH YOUR WEARY FACE FLAPPING AWAY WITH A MOUTH FULL OF BREAD. The flippitywhip of this horaldo the great has been razzamatazzed backwards in a russian playpen full of UN cosmochimps, not that you would own up to eating all our croissants while we were in the party sauna having a network rut.
If you would prefer to lurk successfully behind bins at the local hospital hoping for a glimmer of inspiration for your latest instructional pamphlet please reply with ‘GROOF!’ in the subject line and rotate on your clothesline before proposing to your partner by holding an upside down calculator with ‘SHELLOIL’ spelled out. The listless huff and puff of sophisticated fisticuffs.
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* ‘Tram Inspector’ the first single from Songs From The 86 Tram has been getting a fair spin around Melbourne. It scored Single Of The Week’ in Inpress: “….The Bedroom Philosopher’s hysterical skewering of meat-headed ticketing inspectors falls somewhere between a Fame-era Bowie slink and inspirational Hunners balladry. I like my musical comedy to, as the name suggests, be musically captivating first, funny second. Luckily, with Tram Inspector, both come equal first.” Clem Bastow. It’s up on iTunes. Triple J have favoured ‘Northcote (So Hungover)’, my first playlist add since Pomo in ‘05. The album is looking set to come out late March.

* Would anyone like to do a remix of one of the album tracks?

* A big ‘ol BP ad will feature in the next Frankie magazine, due out mid-Feb. This includes details of a run of dates April/May with Josh Earl, who is about to unleash his ‘Womans Weekly Cake Book’ fury on Australia. We’ll be touring Canberra, Sydney, Adelaide, Hobart and Launceston. I’ll be doing Brisbane solo.

* I’ve moved house, again. The fifth sharehouse in two years. Is this some kind of record? Is it the fact I write my name on my bananas? I think this is the one. Neat location, cheap rent, sweet people (a couple), quiet surrounds and a bedroom with an adjoining sunroom bit separated by doors that I can set up as an office. This is something I’ve wanted for a while, to avoid the OCD nature of self-managed admin hell, where the first thing you do each day is check your emails in the nude.

* Lime Champions is back on the air after a summer break. You can tune in every Monday at 7pm on Melbourne’s Triple R. Or stream it live, relatively easily at www.rrr.org

* I’ve ceased my columns with Canberra streetpress BMA and The Big Issue. This is due to increased busyness. I got a bit burnt out towards the end of last year. At one point I made a play castle out of toast and tiny teddy’s.

* I sold some stuff on Ebay for the first time. The highlight was a promotional photo of the Sick Puppies from 2001 (my uni journalism days) which fetched $30 from a Japanese gal. I also got $10 for some old ‘Chaser’ newspapers from a guy on Magnetic Island who requested that I ‘pack well please.’ The rest was the best of my basketball card collection from 1994. (I amassed about 750 LA Laker cards. Pity they were such a crap team back then.) Unfortunately, most of my Magic Johnson laker cards didn’t go past $1, which made the exercise a bit more trouble than it was worth. (Especially when I spent $30 on an online subscription to find out what the cards were worth. Not much. I needed some Shaq rookie action. Shaq attack! (Sorry if I’ve lost you girls.)

CLICK ON POSER BELOW, I MEAN POSTER TO BOOK TICKETS!

100% Super soft cotton. Tight fit. Available in Girls and Guys sizes. Feel free to make enquiries about sizing. To order, liase with The Bedroom Philosopher directly HERE and he’ll post it to you himself. Only $25 inc. postage and handling. NOTE: Albums are also available this way. (GIRLS S, L, XL, 2XL GUYS S, M, L).

My first memory of graffiti was in my hometown Burnie where someone had spray-painted ‘BAD DUES’ on the swimming pool wall. They were obviously such bad dudes they didn’t even need all the letters. Other haiku’s included ‘RAP MUSIC,’ ‘Karissa is a mole’ and a super smiley out of proportion woman about to rendezvous with a finger. When I was ten I took time out from a pleasant family BBQ to use a public toilet, only to read some explicit scrawls about pleasuring a clitoris. There was no internet safe search or shrink wrap plastic to protect me from this self-published smut. I traced the walls and found them to be full of inglorious and puzzling sentiments. Who were these profane prophets, putting the amen in amenities?

Stepping into a cussed up cubicle is like being inside a not so ‘beautiful mind.’ Similar to the scene where Russell Crowe’s maths theories sprawl out like vines, in the uriney toilet it’s more of a spidery throwback to The Shining. The manic, the frustrated, the crest fallen and the bemused, their all-work-no-play primal screams tattooed in hexed texta. After a couple of breath-defying sessions in ‘they smell how I feel’ unisex booths, I’ve identified the five main genres of faffiti as:

ANGRY: ”fuckin shoeless punx homos the lot of em” – Burnt out teacher turned pot dealer who’s ran out of paper and missed out on the open mic blackboard.
POLITICAL: “You tosser…it’s getting weird everywhere. We’re so lucky here. Ever imagined Stalin’s USSR or Nazi Germany, or the Chinese cultural revolution? Get your head out of your own ass you tragic person.” Political Science student coked out on no doz in the 9th trimester of his PHD riffing with a Kerry O’Brien hallucination.
PHILOSOPHICAL: “Always keep a diamond in your mind.” Drifter hippy girl big on spirituality and getting smashed – full of love, unreliability and Tom Waits lyrics.
POETIC: “By the flickering stars with my legs around his hips. The currency of love is being cremated.” Scholarly goth hip-gypsy calamity girl with long legs and dark eyes. A walking Nick Cave song who’s constantly ‘burning off’ and ‘workshopping.’
FUNNY: “What if the hokey pokey is what it’s all about?” Youth worker slash amateur comedian spends a lot of time with teenagers – communicates in Simpsons quotes and sees toilet wall as platform for positive change.

I have an admiration for anyone who takes the time to write a letter to the editor in God’s pool room. Being a democracy, other users have the right of reply. The silver pen statement ‘LOVE EVERYONE’ was met with: (except you.) The incongruous ‘I am in the ladies’ was backed up with ‘fair plan to u brother.’ While my favourite was ‘playing banjo is the key to happiness all your problems. On the bottom of the toilet door was this quivering sonnet:
‘all I had to do
was hold onto you
when the world spins so fast
and our grips cannot last
the force that holds us here
finally disappears. Xox’

I felt a pang of sadness, took out my pen to reply, but found that I’d been beaten to the punch.
‘LIFE SUCKS DICKHEAD.’

Sometimes words are enough.

Tram Inspector single of the week in Inpress: “….The Bedroom Philosopher’s hysterical skewering of meat-headed ticketing inspectors falls somewhere between a Fame-era Bowie slink and inspirational Hunners balladry. I like my musical comedy to, as the name suggests, be musically captivating first, funny second. Luckily, with Tram Inspector, both come equal first.” Clem Bastow, December 16 2009.

Tram Inspector is now available on iTunes HERE

• Songs From The 86 Tram is finished and sounding a million dollars. I’ve fast tracked the first cut ‘Tram Inspector’ on Myspace. The plan is to a) wander around a bit b) send it off to record industry types c) leave a pile of copies on the tram like the hardware version of file sharing d) release by March. I shall be reprising the show at next year’s comedy festival.

• I appear as John Safran’s re-enactments on his new show. It was filmed during two weeks in June. The segments demonstrate my ability to act, beginning in Year 12 when I won the theatre award, continued during uni student plays and then left by the wayside for ten years unless you count Bedroom Philosopher as a kind of character which he/she is. The biggest acting challenge was wearing jeans for the first time and driving, (while in jeans!) Spare a thought for my Mum and Nan who tuned in to see my television debut only to find me blowing my brains out. I’m currently pitching concepts to ABC for my own show where I re-enact the awkward moments from celebrity’s lives.

• I’m growing. This year I went to an accountant for the first time and I think I’ve become vegetarian. The latter is a trend I’ve been steering towards over the last year, eating less and less meat, even though I love it. The decision is more health than political and I’ve tried to offset my stressful lifestyle by eating as many vegetables as I can. You get iron from nuts and I’m keeping fish, everything’s cool. (Since writing this I’ve passed out several times and gone back to meat.)

• I am living in my fourth sharehouse in under two years and once again experiencing difficulties. This time it’s based on the piercing train crossing alarm right outside my window. If anyone has any tipoffs for affordable solo living in Melbourne I think it might be time to get a bit Salad Fingers.

• Me and my 70’s tie collection will be featured on ABC’s collectors early next year

• Thanks to everyone who came to the Melbourne Toff residency. Happy two thousand and zen. Lime Champions will resume on February 1.

ISSUE 74
Monday November 30, 2009

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LT BIRTHDAYS

Happy Birthday Garry Shandling 60 yesterday!
Happy Birthday Ben Stiller 44 today!
Happy Birthday Billy Idol 54 today!

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AUSTRALIAN TOWN NAMES AND MEANINGS

Coolamon – Traditional term of approval used in reggae.
Grong Grong – A caveman’s telephone ringing.
Tongaboo – Surprising someone at a barbecue.
Koonoomoo – Trying to soothe a new-born calf.
Boggabilla – A traditional place to play Boggle.
Lavington – Decorating a toilet seat with desiccated coconut.
Thurgoona – Drinking cheap wine on a Thursday.
Gleniffer – The female form of ‘Glen.’
Moolort – A special wine for cows.
Wareek – The shock of seeing Warwick Capper.
Dooboobetic – Someone who is allergic to the Doobie Brothers.
Terrappee – Using an outside toilet at night.
Catumnal – An almanac published by cats every year.
Tittybong – Couldn’t think of one.
Bald Knob – Couldn’t think of one.
Diddillibah – The disappointment of only getting a funsize Mars bar.
Tinbeerwah – The disappointment of only getting canned beer.
Chatsworth – The measurement of a good conversation.
Mooloo – Couldn’t think of one.
Boyerine – A dairy spread marketed at men.
Daliak – A dalek programmed to understand the paintings of Salvador Dali.

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TINY LEGENDS – Moments that fell down the back of the couch.

From Stephen Ives, Melbourne.

“This happened at the Vic Markets on one of the rainy days last week. One of our crew came back from a toilet brake laughing his arse off, he had just witnessed a young Chinese man holding his toy poodle upside down under the automatic hand dryer drying its feet.”

EMAIL US YOUR TINY LEGENDS.

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INANIMATE OBJECT BEREAVEMENT NOTICES

******
DEAD
******

From Alice Gage, Sydney.

“My pain is very fresh, and I thought I’d write to you to help me on the road to healing. Thank you for creating this platform for people to express their grief – it mean so much.

Why didn’t I take that bus? Why did I have to try the breakfasts at that new cafe? Why did I drink so much soy latte that I needed to do a poo? And why didn’t I hold it? These were the questions running through my mind as I watched my iPod slowly drown on the inside, after dropping it in the cafe toilet (post-flush FYI). Despite the fear of faeces particles that weren’t my own, I got in there quick as lightning and pulled my iPod out. First it seemed to have survived. Then the water leaked inside the screen. I furiously tried to dry it but it was no good – by that point, it was already gone. So, no more tunes on the train, no more bopping on the bus. No more arrogantly changing the music at friends’ parties when I don’t like their playlists. Rest in peace, Serial no.: 9E852010V9K. I know I won’t, because now I can’t listen to my relaxation podcasts.”

20/05/09 – RIP white iPod 5th Generation

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WE PRAY FOR THEIR RECALIBRATION
*************************************

SEND YOUR BEREAVEMENT NOTICES TO laptopping @ bedroomphilosopher . com

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GET A WRIGGLE ON GOOGLET!
Phrases people have typed into Google to land on my website:

“the bedroom phelosophier”
“worm boy hey hey its saturday video from 1994”
“north fitzroy pretentious”
“financial planning comedy songs”
“where do i kiss my bride first on bedroom?”
“does uppercase xxx mean more than lower case xxx”
“harry noblets wallpaper shop”
“cheese feeding budgies”
“xavier rudd ear plugs”
“poems about 1080 poisoning”
“bunyips childrens band coffs harbour”
“perth vegan jarrod”

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TIME IS CHEESE AND MOUSE IS HUNGRY!

Greatest YouTube ever? (courtesy of Tony Martin)

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STORYTIME

BROWN & ORANGE TOUR DIARY

Tuesday June 30. Melbourne – Sydney.
Mad Dog, Hitz and I set off on the twelve hour drive to Sydney. Mad Dog dropped an early gem by referring to KFC as ‘Dirty Bird.’ I realised I was going to run out of songs to program after one and a half Beck albums.
OP SHOPPING BONUS ROUND: In a country town an hour out of Melbs I picked up a mint condition black velvet suit jacket made in England for five bucks! Easily my greatest score in five years. Mad Dog began the adventure of finding vegetarian food in the country.

TYPICAL CONVERSATION:
MD: What’s in the vegetarian quiche?
Shopkeep: Ham.

Arrived in Sydney that night. Stayed at a mate of Hitz’ place in Bondi. The next day we had a wonderful swim and I couldn’t be cynical about Bondi at all – 23 degrees in the middle of winter. Plus we ate at a nice cafe Jed’s and had Jamaican Porridge. Here we began our tour trend of baffling waitstaff with our colossal indecision and ridiculous questions. “Are the napkins organic?” While we are actually a dangerously polite band of cardigan wearing vego’s, passive aggressively we can fairly trash the place.

Wednesday July 1. Sydney. Bar Me.

WHAT IT MEANS TO BE YOUR OWN TOUR MANAGER: There I am, having the discussion about band meals with the barman. He says we can have a free meal off the $10 board. An hour later he says “I spoke to our manager and he’s veto’d it.” This put me in a massive grump for the rest of the night. I ate my Irish Stew a bit quickly and scolded my mouth.
FUNNY GIG MOMENT: Flutes Magee wandered off stage and came back with the door money, which he’d been given by the door guy getting bored. Flutes handed it to me halfway through a song, as if no other opportunity would present itself.
SOUND GUY: Was great. A sound guy can make or break a night. (That and whether you have to pay for your own soft drink. Here and the Espy…YES). When it’s going well the soundguy is a) into you. b) lets you play your own pre-show music. c) doesn’t say things like ‘Can’t polish a turd’ when you ask for more fold back. When it’s going bad the soundguy is a) a bitter husk of a failed muso glaring at you through butted out eyes.

Thursday July 2. Canberra. ANU.

SANDWICH ADVENTURE
I’d bought a ham and salad roll, but then upgraded my lunch option further up the highway. Two days later it was found hot and steamy in the glove box. We pulled up to a rest stop with a public toilet but no bin. I contemplated hurling it somewhere, but knew that wasn’t my scene, so I decided to put the roll on the roof of the car and not tell anyone and hope it would magically take care of itself. As the car pulled away I noticed a grey haired man suddenly tearing out of the toilets, mouthing something while pointing to the roof of the car. In a chase sequence not unlike Terminator Two, as we continued to crawl away he easily caught up with the vehicle, and handed the sandwich back to me, for which I acted grateful in an AFI winning performance.

DETAILED CANBERRA REPORT TAKEN FROM BMA COLUMN:
The rock and roll circus that was The Bedroom Philosopher tour rolled into Canberra. (More of a Cirque Du Soleil type circus…costumes and pretention). Our party of seven, split into two cars went screaming up Northborne avenue doing at least 70kmh, The Beatles at a sensible volume and my arm holding an empty coffee cup daringly out the window. Nothing we could do could compare to the rebellion of ABC 666. Satan in slacks.

Seeing Canberra for the first time in a while reminded me how squares and circles it is. I went on a rant pretending I was Walter Burley Griffin, it involved a bad European accent and ‘my father was a box maker and I’ve always loved boxes. I also had a spirograph. I wanted Canberra to have a roundabout on every corner, like cement connect four.’

Canberra responded to my humour icily. It was seven degrees and raining when we hit Civic. We checked into the YHA. There was seven of us in an eight room dorm, so we were awkward about a blind date with our extra friend. He turned out to be a meat and potato Irish backpacker airing off his feet, telling us he ‘moight come dern to the univoisitay laytor.’

‘Look for the balls!’ I screamed to the driver as we winded about the back road labyrinth of the ANU. Sure enough, the big cement balls of the ANU bar appeared. Inside, the atmos was pumping. Fluro lights. The patter of evening rain. Three tired students and a Tooheys New keg change. I activated my expectation lowering and nervous energy dispersing subroutines. I reminded everyone that Kurt Cobain had played on this stage, and how people bashed down the doors to see Nirvana. I had visions of a similar event tonight, with people trying to stop me playing I’m So Post Modern.

Post gig we went back to the YHA to drop off stuff and make our beds. I sat, perplexed, staring into space with a fitted sheet half on. My band asked me what was wrong. ‘It’s so boring.’ I replied. We strolled next door into the defunct funk of Transit to get loose. I sat on a stool with Josh Earl and we did our ‘everyone’s nineteen and we’re sitting on stools watching people dance lucky we know we’re cool or we’d be a bit shit’ act. I was feeling a bit restless so I wandered over to play pool. Some dudes already had a coin down and told me so casually. I came back at them with total aggression. I hadn’t drank or smoked for a few days, self enforced mood diet, and I was uptight and ready to go these guys. Some cute first year philosophy girls bailed me up in the corner to tell me that I wasn’t actually a philosopher. I argued that I knew who Socrates was and had read some Alain De Boton but they just laughed. They said some stuff and asked me if I preferred red or white onion and it was probably flirting but then I got tired and left. Michael Jackson came on and I did a tribute shimmy.

Back at the YHA we went up to the games room where some supremely dull tourists were watching the tennis. We whispered discreetly and they glared at us with melancholic hatred. On my way to bed I culture jammed the chalkboard so that ‘Monday: Aussie movies’ said ‘Monday: Ass movies.’ Still got it.

DID YOU KNOW? That while on tour I discovered a new diet of not drinking any sugary drinks or smoking before I got on stage. It made me have a more constant level of energy and not be so frantic.

THE NEXT MORNING: I ordered the pancakes but wished I’d got the omelette. (Who wants to buy the screen rights?)

CAR TETRIS
Jesus wept did we have some trouble packing the two cars. Drumkit, percussion, two amps, sitar, four guitars, merch, bags, fifteen harry potter books, four kilos of sour worms. Suavey was the packing master, but it was dense man, real dense, we needed one of those space saving vacuum seal bags that Nan gives me at Christmas.

FAQ
Q. What was it like having best friend Josh Earl on board?
A. Good thanks. He quickly bonded with the band and did a fantastic job opening. For example, in Canberra he coaxed everyone to the front of the stage, warding off my number one enemy ‘dance floor gap.’ One thing about comedy is it gives you great interpersonal skills with your audience which can really help awkward music venue dynamics. What is WITH audiences watching the support act as far away from the stage as possible? A few people were in their cars watching through binoculars. How did we become so self conscious? I blame the church.
GIG ROCKOUT MOMENT: During ‘Cmon x 5′ I crawled underneath the stage and refused to come out for a while. Some people left and I used my telemarketing technique of conducting an on the spot survey, finding out why they were leaving and did they enjoy the gig. These people ‘had to catch a train’ which is crowd speak for ‘you’re a precocious off-key buffoon.’

WHAT ABOUT FLUTES MAGEE? TELL ME MORE ABOUT HIS ANTICS:
Pre-show some casual girl students asked Flutes about the gig and he went bananas. He said if he span around on one foot while playing flute they would have to come to the gig. The girls accepted the offer and Flutes went pear shaped. I looked up from changing strings to see a lean, moustached, curly haired boy in a jumper leaping wildly about while playing a maddening tableaux of impossibly high woodwind super crotchets. In perfect Canberra uni student form the girls didn’t seem to notice or care.
FLUTES MUSICAL SCREEN SAVER: There was a great trick, if you left Flutes standing still for long enough he’d start playing the James Bond theme.
HOW TO WIN OVER POTENTIALLY SURLY SOUNDIES: Have a sitar in the band.

Friday July 3. Newcastle. The Lass’O'Gowrie Hotel.

The Lass’O'Gowrie is the kind of unpretentious boho sanctum where they have a series of coins lining the bar mantelpiece so if you’re a little bit short of change you can buy yourself a beer. This was a welcome shot of Melbournesque goodwill. I was in a bad mood for various reasons. I wanted to buy the band dinner. I was trying to pay for as many things as I could with my extremely well timed TV money. (I’d been cut off from Centrelink that day.) Tonight there was no door charge and people weren’t there to see us so Josh was the hardest working man in gentle whimsy comedy pop.
OBSCURE CROWD MOMENT: A guy told Josh he’d been ‘powned’ but refused to clarify.
FIRST THING THE SOUNDIE SAID TO US: “I’ve got a blockage in one ear.”
THAT NIGHT: We stayed in an abandoned bowls club turned communal living arrangement between the Newie hip-gyps and indie-ferals. While it was good for the Kerouac page in our bio’s in reality it meant spooning your gurgly band brethren in a damp partitioned costume room with manikin heads peering down on you while a baby screamed for most of the night in the next room. The next day we played a rigorous game of soccer on the bowling green and bought some serious fruit and veg.

Saturday July 4. Byron Bay. Rest Day.

HOW HELPFUL WERE IPHONES IN ALL THIS: Two words, Google Maps. Flutes earned himself the ultimate Australian compliment, the ‘double nickname’ – that’s right, a nickname on top of a nickname by becoming ‘Maps Magee.’ Infact, like the x-men, we all had our areas of speciality:

Gordon “Suavey Shankar” Blake: Packing and energy. He’d be the one up at six to have a surf. We basked in his limitless enthusiasm for madcappery. He and Flutes were the only ones holding up the ‘rock pig’ flag. While the rest of us were all hommus and flossing, he was busting out the tequila for ‘business breakfasts.’

Andy “Nature Boy” Hazel: His studious dedication to reading all of Mad Dog’s copy of the final Harry Potter provided a calming presence, like watching someone rake a zen garden. Also: Snack monitor. His Naturopathy skills ensured a steady flow of fruit and nuts to counteract our sudden obsession with sour worms. (Poor Naturopathy, even spellcheck won’t recognise it.)

Jamie “Hitz Rodriguez” Power: Hitz was great for band spiritual morale, being road captain, and using his years of Yoga instructing and band touring knowledge to keep our physical well being in check. Ie have a stretch and lay off the sausage rolls. He also acted as dietician, working hard to keep me off the sugar to improve my mood. We were also able to learn about his dark past as a mask wearing double kick drummer in a Kiwi thrash metal band.

Hugh “Mad Dog” Rabinovici: First Lieutenant of the hire car and Faff Monitor. Early on in the piece Hugh identified the bands incredible propensity to faff about. From standing around an unpacked car cracking gags to chatting to the sound guy about who supported the Stones in the 70’s. In his most polite after school care tone Mad Dog could be seen clapping hands and starting sentences with ‘all right lads…’

Michael “Flutes Magee” O’Connor: Iphone Map Specialist and ’special features’ back seat driver. Flutes earned a third nickname, ‘Special Features’ after it was revealed that he would not only tell you about the state of the intersection coming up, but also tell you the cultural history of the highway you were travelling on, when it was built, planned developments and a bibliography. It was all on when Hitz was driving and Flutes was giving him directions such as “the road will veer left here, turn your steering wheel left and the car will stay on the road. Here are some traffic lights, if they are red then you must brake.” Hitz had to salute a lot of suns that day.

Josh “Josh” Earl: Car DJ chieftain. Josh supplied a steady stream of Ryan Adams and bands from New York I’ve never heard of. Not to mention his stoic, upbeat demeanour – a priceless tool. (the demeanour, not him). He also provided an indie nemisis for Nature Boy, the pair constantly trying to out-underground each other.

The drive to Byron included our first annual ‘Rudeo’ This was an internal car holiday giving us license to be rude high school boy style. It was like an episode of Are You Being Served in there. I even followed Josh’s many taunts and bought a dirty magazine from a servo. It was violently disappointing. In a testament to our sensitive Melbourne boy posterior we criticised the state of the journalism and weren’t being ironic. On our way we called into Coffs Harbour and had deliciously fatty fish and chips while sitting on the jetty rocks, yelling at the sea. Afterwards, we bought ice creams and while handing one to Hitz, Nature Boy squeezed too hard and the cone broke. After a long day of Sydney detours and getting lost, Hitz snapped with a tirade of swearing. On tour, it’s the little things that break you.

BYRON: Dudes with their tops off. We escaped Saturday night by watching ‘The Hangover’ and it was ok. The next morning I was cross at the cafe for having fine print which read ‘extra 15% surcharge on weekends.’ I started to feel like a character out of Seinfeld.
SO WHAT DID SUAVEY, MAD DOG, AND FLUTES GET UP TO SATURDAY NIGHT?:
You know the saying, what happens on tour, gets edited in the tour diary based on space restrictions.

Sunday July 5. Brisbane. The Troubadour.

By day five your eyes are maxed out on countryside, silly town names and bemusing business titles like ‘Big Dad’s Pies,’ and ‘Swaggers Motor Inn.’ We played a few driving games. You say a band name like ‘Skunk Anansie’ and the next person must say one starting with the last letter of the last one. (If it’s a double letter, like Supergrass then you change direction). You get three strikes. Nature Boy narrowly beat me. We were rewarded for our last gig of the run with three flights of stairs to load in to the venue. I had foolishly booked a side solo comedy gig for Josh and I at the Brisbane Powerhouse, so was unable to do a sound check. I felt all lame-o so scurried off to find a falafel and jump in a cab for some a-grade ‘tour downtime.’

TOUR DOWNTIME:
It’s not all coke and hookers. In fact, it’s not even coopers green and groupies. It’s more like warm fruit juice and staring at a woman getting in her car at the servo. Tour Downtime is a common factor of touring. With seven grown men in such close proximity, one needs to respect the space and the quest for private time. For me, it was like taking all the best bits of school camps, and applying it to an adult setting. Little things, like a gentle rub on the back as you stared off into space, or an offering of almonds was the closest I’ll feel to having a brother. We noted how unusual it was to have so much exposure to man energy. I myself rarely congregate in groups of men. This felt fun and uncomplicated, like a good relationship.

TOUR UPTIME:
When you’re rocking the bananas out of some prog-novelty folk-rock with your band in hot form and the attentive Brisbane audience in rapturous cheers well, you are in the eye of the bejewelled chrysalis of your creatively climactic youth, aren’t you? You’re validated to the heavens and flying high on mirth and faith and syncopated idea smashing where the hammer of industry fitness reigns down on the flint of a rock hard lifetime’s worth of joys and disasters, sending glistening soul sweat and laser words splicing the silence – the moodquake vibrato of skins slammed and strings ploughed raining a kaleidoscope of idea melodies down on the audience like audio Braille.

BEST AFTER GIG FAN: I adore people coming up afterwards to thank me. Sometimes you get a bit of ‘you probably get this all the time’ or ‘I’m going to sound wanky but…’ but the truth is you can never get enough compliments. An interesting trend with comedy is you get a lot of couples, and often I get couples where the girl has something to say and the boy hovers somewhat protectively in the background. I find this gesture romantic and quite sensible because despite what you might think I am a complete hound and will bed your girlfriend in the time it takes you to buy me a beer. We won’t do anything of course, we’ll just be in bed and I’ll say I’m tired and she’ll huffily read the time travellers wife.
One girl, ‘Dawn’ came up.
Me: Dawn’s a lovely name.
Dawn: Can I tell you a weird story?
Me: Yes.
Dawn: The other day at Boost Juice they asked for my name and I told them and then later when they called out my name they called me ‘Bort.’

LAST NIGHT OF TOUR, TALK US THROUGH THE NO DOUBT CRAZY HIJINKS AND ARRESTS / TATTOOS / UNPLANNED PREGNANCIES AND ILLICIT SUBSTANCE TRAFFICKING. SERIOUSLY HOW NUDE WERE YOU AND HOW MANY HELICOPTERS DID YOU FLY INTO THE CASINO?

We stayed at Hitz’ friends parents house. We found to our bemusement that they’d locked their bedroom doors so we had to spoon in single beds. It was 12 degrees and we only had one bar heater to warm the whole house. We had a beer and some doritos and played half of Odelay on a small stereo and went to bed.

HOMEWARD BOUND (Cue the song in your head and imagine from now on that we are also dogs)
The group split up, not in a ‘I can’t stand the infuriating drone of your voice for one more second, I’m off to pursue a solo project which no matter how much work I put in fans will never embrace’ kind of way. I mean more like the Starship Enterprise can split into two groups. Mad Dog and I set off for a two day, 2000km drive from Brisbane to Melbourne. (Note my skills, the way I phrase things makes it sound like I might have actually done some driving and not just slouched sheepishly cuing Roots CD’s and offering water.) On the way we encountered Goondiwindi, which gets my award for most depressed country town. Lowlights included our daily scrounge for vegetarian fare which ended in an aggressive stand off with a bakery woman who said ‘whatevers in the warmer’ which consisted of eight near empty bay marie trays with a frizzled egg and some grated carrot. I was dressed in black velvet jacket, shorts and blonde birds nest hair and felt intensely self conscious. The overweight women behind the counter smirked amongst themselves in a way that took me back to high school. I’d forgotten in all my Gen-Y super freelance arty fartiness that meanwhile middle Australia was serving pies to truckies and frowning whenever uptight city prix blew in. As I stood in the local target fingering a $32 Pearl Jam best of, while a tubular kid snarled at his rotund mother about which x-box game he wanted, smelling the stale afternoon air and chemically cleaned carpet, I felt a great sadness, quickly anaesthetised with a healthy shot of self-satisfied adrenalin. I was doing well and had the option of getting in a car and getting the hell back to my home. I’d worked hard and I deserved to feel grateful.

Vegie pocket crumbs dropped on the boot tramped girlie magazine, as my feet sent a ten pin of empty water bottles spiralling in all directions. I put on Fourtet, the minimalist beat matching the white stripes of the road, and sank back in my seat as the burnt orange sun sank behind some fat macrocarpas, Mad Dog set the car in cruise and tapped a jazz signature on the steering wheel. We counted down the k’s and spliced through the haze.
ALWAYS THE SOUND: Of an engine.

TOUR RATING: #1 baby.
HEY AWKWARDSTRA: Thanks, I love you.

THE END

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LAYTOPING IS MISPELLED, AND FREE! WHAT A GREAT GIFT IDEA, AND IT’LL CUT YOUR ENERGY BILLS IN HALF! SEND IT TO A FRIEND!

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NOTICE AND DISCLAIMER:
May you always feast liberally from your cosmic platter of creative inklings.

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Ah yes, like Scrooge McDuck used to flap wildly about in his columns of cash, the modern young thing can interpretive dance around shelves of perishable trinkets and wardrobes laden with long-lost fabrics, basking in the wealth of yesteryear. Boy/Girl, do we love vintage! If we had it our way, the whole world would be one big ‘the 60’s.’ Psychedelic pop art, milk in bottles, mint condition Stones records and no-one would have to go to work. We’d be too busy running barefoot through the sun drenched grass, on our way to the Sunbury markets.

For me, like many, a relationship with retro began as a child. Stomping about on orange and cream carpets, fighting with crochet pillows, being scolded for getting too close to the Royal Doulton tea sets – soothed by the bottle green pleats of Nan’s polyester skirt. Second hand stores existed within our first hand homes. Who hasn’t looked through the square window of childhood photos and seen a vintage catalogue. Your two toned blue Hawaiian t shirt, your Mum’s maroon cardigan, the yellow and chestnut diamond curtains – you’d happily buy it all. We learned to associate the bright woollens and warm vinyls of the past with a safe, adoring environment.

After rinsing away the brainwash of high school, we strolled independent through the bell-tripped opportunity doors. Baskets and racks, tables and shelves lay brimming like twenty cent smorgasbords. A museum of manufacturing seen through a Kodachrome kaleidoscope. If there are super foods then surely these were super things! Collectibles you could wear. Secrets you could sift. Modern antiques you could pick up and play. Treasure hunts, dress ups, shopping and charity all wrapped up in one glorious ball of wool. In a corruptible world, op shopping was our ideal private universe.

Ten years on and corruption has crept in like mildew. What was once an innocent love affair has been exploited into a vintage ‘industry.’ We are mere consumer demographic for big city boutiques; A-grade hoarders glued to E-Bay like arty pokie victims. Ironically, at a time when quality retro is supposed to be running out, we are granny blanketed with prize finds that have had the ‘treasure’ sucked off them like chocolate and the price tags privatised. Second hand has been sanitised for the mainstream. Like meat was once hunted and vegetables were grown, vintage was once ‘found.’ Now, it comes marked up and mark free.

Last year, in an attempt to keep up with this acceleration, my op shopping became more aggressive. I bled my internet trigger finger until my post box was choked with the 70’s ties I collect. I patrolled the inner-city circuit, budget blind and paying up to $20 dollars a piece. I chatted up store assistants and asked to look through the boxes out the back – on my hands and knees, rummaging through the retro rainbow, forever out of reach and drawing me forth. I was trying to collect an unlimited set. With the sense of discovery and bargain aspect gone, what was left? This was no casual afternoon browse, this was calculated retail therapy. I had mutated my hobby into a necessity, a distraction, a competition, an emotional drug. I was trying to buy my way back to better times. I was just another consumer filling a void. I had out retro’d myself.

With the commercialisation of vintage, it’s easy to lose sight of the wide-eyed wonder that drew us to it in the first place. I’ve recovered from my blow out, learning to put the mod in moderation. It helps to venture out to the country, where many op shops still remain untouched. They remind us that second hand cannot be measured in monetary wealth, but in that childlike elation where one’s trash becomes your treasure. The surprise hug from the past, somehow meant just for you.

I’ve always had an overactive imagination, and can’t remember a time when I didn’t spend at least half an hour hurtling through wormholes down the rabbit hole of my mindioli. Through childhood, this tended to be an exciting time, like a fairground for the subconscious. I’d lie there staring up at my glow in the dark stickers (the universe was blurry with my glasses off), enjoying the weight of a balled up cat on my feet, kaleidascoping friends faces with storybook scenery and a pencil case of colour. Teenagedom was reserved for a tour de farce of sexual fantasies and idea fireworks for stunts I could pull at school. With the 4/4 chug of my heart in my ears, a sound I’ve never been too comfortable with, I allowed my engine to power down, safe in the knowledge that I’d always manage to drift off.

As an adult something changed. Dark emotions weaved in like Pacman’s ghosts and screwed with the controls. My single mattress was adrift in space, galaxy’s outside my comfort zone. I was living in a Sydney sharehouse, directly next to a train line and under a flight path. One day a train and plane went by at the same time and the phone rang and I screamed. For weeks on end I’d still be awake at four am. I’d just left the warm arms of a long term relationship and was now tossing and turning like a rotisserie man-chicken – playing one man twister where every colour is BLACK! I drew the viscous circle of not sleeping and then worrying about not sleeping. My sticker-stars were replaced by the corrupt glow of the Internet, the only weight on my feet was unsorted washing.

They say the first thing you should do when you can’t sleep is get up. (James Brown often sang about this). My testament to this theory is a cache of virus ridden computers, a discography of ‘poor man’s Beck’ acoustic demo’s, half arsed attempts at Peter Carey novels and the kinds of snacks that would get you kicked off a cooking show. After alphabetising my medication, I’d return to my usual program of: whywouldshesayathinglikethat!maroon prism dissipates into yellow jelly bean! mustpaymobilebillcanborrowoffmum!sadlovelybushwalkmemorytreees!halfabuildingcrashedontogumboot!beatlesmelodylionsfacewaterslidebreasts! swimming in surf club burnt my steak beer with katrina tomorrow volcanic double faced clown crayon butterscotch scottishcloud stained glass whistling sandra sully! still not fucking asleep! 4:39! Tomorrows centrelinkkkk be at gig at 6sleep till 12no11no12okay1130 yes! No! don’t sleepin, mustsend email tofestivalbluepolesturningintohexagonflipsmeltsmillionsdarkness! can you have two wanks in a night?

The next day I’d awake like a smashed ant and try to conjure Edward Norton from Fight Club. At least he made walking around like a zombie look cool. (Scratch the blowing up credit card companies shtick…although…centrelink…*mumbles to self*)

Today, things are a bit better, and I’ve grown more confident in my ability to adapt. I’m tired of running at half capacity. I’m trying to funnel the fallout into a routine of exercise and early mornings. There are other practical things like no caffeine after four, getting up at the same time each day, and no Lolcats before bed. (SAD FACE). Others have suggested warm milk, BBC World Service and masturbation (all at once). I feel like there’s a world of meditation out there I’m yet to explore, and I think of my mind as a startled stallion that can be handled and tamed. Oh for rain on the roof, freshly washed sheets and snuggling deep under the covers. Oh for drifting into a beautiful dream where you’re flying high above the navy ocean, skimming the sunset clouds.

You’ve heard of the 40 year old virgin, now meet the 29 year old travelling virgin – oft attracting the same kind of playful derision from friends and colleagues that Steve Corell’s character does. Like him I am equally sheepish yet matter of fact about it. It just never happened, and now I’ve left it for so long that it’s become too bigger deal. I’ve missed the Contiki boat. Just as Steve’s friends assure him it’s not too late and start an intervention, I want someone to get me drunk and set me up with Thailand.

Travelling’s that thing that everyone does where they escape their life to feel the most like themselves and become more interesting with stories you can’t relate to. Travelling is an opportunity for people to come back to Australia and strut around like explorers with their Spanish fighting sticks, London hangovers, Vietnemese snake wines and American gusto. They can waltz around their home ‘village’ safe in the knowledge they’ve seen outside the square and have an unbreakable bond with the rest of the world forged through a quickie in a Bolivian backpackers.

I was raised with the philosophy of ‘we have no money,’ and jet setted around Tasmania in a caravan. I loved every minute of it, but didn’t think outside the triangle. As an adult, all my money was spent keeping my artistic ball in the air. I couldn’t shake the feeling there was work to be done here before running off to Scotland to crack a fat over architecture. As a comedian I was blasted with orders to go to Edinburgh Fringe and do a show, only to watch colleagues return, screaming about what a great experience it was, only to break down a month later with $10, 000 credit card debts. C’mon, I can lose that kind of money here.

When you’ve never been outside Australia, you spend most of your energy convincing yourself you haven’t made a huge mistake with your life. Here goes – part of me wants to wait until I pass the black belt of my personality so I can get better value for money – like rereading your favourite book and getting more out of it. I get my adrenalin rush from performing; I’m proving myself all the time; Touring Australia gives me an enormous sense of satisfaction and perspective, cruising through airports with loner superiority; I meet plenty of foreigners after gigs – at least one!

Me: New York seems amazing. From what I could tell from The Ninja Turtles Movie it has a lot of interesting characters.
Person: Where will you travel to first?
Me: (Thinks for 18 minutes) Uh, New…
Person: York?
Me: Zealand.

I think I’m going to break the ice with India. The sitar is my favourite instrument, Indian is my favourite food, I think Indian women are the most beautiful and apparently Bombay is stuck in the 70’s and you can get cheap custom made flares. I figure if i’ve left it this late, the only way in is the deep end. A massive dose of food poisoning, brutal scenes of poverty and a complete culture shock will shake me loose of this tiring precociousness. I can finally join the ranks of real adult mavericks who have taken the plunge, delving through the worlds chapters with glee – from the apple isle to the big apple!

ALTERNATE ENDINGS

Person: Where should I go in Tasmania?
Me: The airport.