• I’m releasing a new album soon and am on the lookout for video artists, computer animators (CGI) and anyone involved in robotics. Alternatively, if you’re a director/artist bang-up for making a video, send your CV to: laptopping (at) bedroomphilosopher (dot) com

• Limited Ed. Croxton High Hoodies are now available in the BP Store.

• Thanks to everyone who came to the High School Assembly. The Age reviewed it here. I recommend shows by Josh Earl, Zoe Coombs Marr & Nick Coyle.

• I did a radio interview with Shaun Micallef and an Irish Tina Turner impersonator. I am not much starstruck in this photo. Here is a link to the interview. Shaun has a new show on the ABC later in the year.

• The Bedroom Philosopher Diaries is still available from my Shop. Affirm Press will release the e-book soon. Here’s a review.

• I missed out on a ticket to Radiohead. Scalpers have used the song 2+2=5 as a pricing model.

• Check out Kony 2012′s sinister musical comedy roots and see UK comedian Charlie Brooker tear Invisible Children a new one. Charlie’s show Black Mirror is the best thing I’ve seen in years.

• The Bedroom Philosopher’s High School Assembly is now on sale.

• I done a book. The Bedroom Philosopher Diaries. It’s a collection of tragi-comic tour reports and self-analysis from the past five years. It includes remixes of several Storytimes with tour photos and cartoons by Leigh Rigozzi, as well as the previously unpublished Songs From The 86 Tram tour diary. All printed in peacock blue on a vintage Risograph by A Small Press in Melbourne. Read a review by Three Thousand. It’s available in selected shops and via The BP Shop. (Gleebooks, Avid (SYD), Metropolis, Paperback (MEL), Fullers (HOB), Avid Reader (BRIS), Imprints (ADEL), Smith’s Alternative Bookstore (ACT))

• I released a version of Northcote made up of YouTube comments. You can buy the single from iTunes and see the video on myYouTube Channel.

• 2+2=5: Scalpers use Radiohead song as pricing structure. Here’s my Treble Treble about them and an Old School Song.

• There’s a new series of Grudd books.

• Australia Day saw the staging of the inaugural Hippest 100. I counted down the Hippest 100 bands you’ve never heard of on Twitter. Congratulations to Men Who Stare At Gotye who took out the top spot. See the full list.

• Twitter, yappier more proactive. Amicable. Not tweeting too much. Regular clever observations (3 times a day). Links promoting your associate employee contemporaries. Apostrophes. Spelling well (no abbreviations or grammar errors). A potent, witty commentator. Twitter, yappier, more productive. An artist in a cafe on antidepressants.

• I toured with The Dresden Dolls in January. It was some kind of utopian dream. The Sydney show was streamed live to a cyber audience of many. There’s some cool photos HERE.

• My 70’s tie collection is being dismantled, after several raids by the fashion police I’m trying to hone it down to the best fifty – still fifty too many. Some say their appearance on Collectors led to it being axed. If anyone would like to buy a bulk lot of aggressively daring men’s accessories enquire without.

* There’s new eggplant ‘Ultimate Worrier’ tshirts in The BP Store.

ISSUE 86
Sunday February 12, 2012

**The Bedroom Philosopher Diaries now available from The BP Store**

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LT BIRTHDAYS

Happy Birthday Sigrid Thornton 53 today!
Happy Birthday Christina Ricci 32 today!
Happy Birthday Per Gessle (Roxette) 53 today!

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WHAT’S POPULAR? (FB likes)

Nerf – 659, 350
Waterslides – 124, 684
Trampolines – 34, 045
Backyard Cricket – 33, 754
Croquet – 11, 048
Kites – 7, 252
Tennis Balls – 6, 823
Super Soaker – 2, 413
Frisbees – 2, 036
Totem Tennis – 598
Grip Ball – 154

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LYRIC POLICE

From James Lee.

When I was Young by Eric Burdon & The Animals.

I smoked my first cigarette at ten /
And for girls I had a bad Yen

That right there is one of the clumsiest rhyming couplets in the history of popular
music.

DO YOU KNOW A BAD LYRIC THAT NEEDS POLICING? SEND IT TO:
laptopping at bedroomphilosopher dot com

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MADE UP WORDS AND THEIR MEANINGS

From Geoff Lemon, Melbourne.

Rectify – to testify using the anus.

DO YOU HAVE A MADE UP WORD AND MEANING?
SEND IT TO: laptopping at bedroomphilosopher dot com

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

“funny bedsocks for men”
“older man in badroom”
“why it is taboo for guys to wear short shorts”
“sexy coarseness”
“shane warned deep fried hand”
“how to tell your partner you want to break up”
“anekdote about mess”
“the relationship between daryl braithwaite and fans and fans”
“who makes lenny kravitz greek fisherman hat”
“song that mentions selling flannels”
“when did simon day get married ratcat”
“sarah silverman mental health”
“things a male virgin should know”
“will shorter leg mens shorts come back”

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TIME IS CHEESE AND MOUSE IS HUNGRY!

Why not read the first chapter of Melbourne writer Anna Krien’s first book Into The Woods. It’s about the conflict between activists and loggers in Tasmania. She writes beautifully.

Which Awkward Cat Sleeping Position are you? I’m a bit 5.

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NEWS

• I done a book. The Bedroom Philosopher Diaries. It’s a collection of tragi-comic tour reports and self-analysis from the past five years. It includes remixes of several Storytimes with tour photos and cartoons by Leigh Rigozzi, as well as the previously unpublished Songs From The 86 Tram tour diary. All printed in peacock blue on a vintage Risograph by A Small Press in Melbourne. It’s available in selected shops and via The BP Shop. Read a review by Three Thousand. I’m launching it Feb 17 at Trades Hall in Melbourne, here’s the Facebook Invite.

• I released a version of Northcote made up of YouTube comments. You can buy the single from iTunes and see the video on myYouTube Channel.

• Australia Day saw the staging of the inaugural Hippest 100. I counted down the Hippest 100 bands you’ve never heard of on Twitter. Congratulations to Men Who Stare At Gotye who took out the top spot. See the full list.

• Twitter, yappier more proactive. Amicable. Not tweeting too much. Regular clever observations (3 times a day). Links promoting your associate employee contemporaries. Apostrophes. Spelling well (no abbreviations or grammar errors). A potent, witty commentator. Twitter, yappier, more productive. An artist in a cafe on antidepressants.

• I toured with The Dresden Dolls in January. It was some kind of utopian dream. The Sydney show was streamed live to a cyber audience of many. There’s some cool photos HERE.

• My 70’s tie collection is being dismantled, after several raids by the fashion police I’m trying to hone it down to the best fifty – still fifty too many. Some say their appearance on Collectors led to it being axed. If anyone would like to buy a bulk lot of aggressively daring men’s accessories enquire without.

• I’ll be staging The Bedroom Philosopher’s High School Assembly in the Melbourne Comedy Festival. It’s playing at the Forum for ten shows. More info to come.

* There’s new eggplant ‘Ultimate Worrier’ tshirts in The BP Store.

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A GIGGLE OF GIGS

The Bedroom Philosopher Diaries Book Launch & Knees Up

Friday Feb 17, Trades Hall, Carlton.

Featuring:
Justin Heazlewood in conversation with himself
Readings by Dave Graney & Damian Cowell (DC3)
Indie male burlesque with Tom Doig
New songs from The Bedroom Philosopher
PBS’s Emma Peel & California Soulman DJing until late.
DJ’s Andy Hazel & Anths
Dapper MC Michael Nolan
Pathos!

Bookings.

Hurry, intimate soiree will potentially exhaust its allocation of tickets!

The Hills Are Alive Festival

March 25, South Gippsland.

With The Awkwardstra. Playing in the afternoon.

Details.

The Bedroom Philosopher’s High School Assembly.

Mar 29 – April 8, The Forum, Melbourne.

Bookings.

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STORYTIME

Songs From The 86 Tram Tour Diary (excerpt).

Saturday August 14. Hobart. Brisbane Hotel. All Ages.
Gig Vibe: 4.5 Venue treatment: 6 Band morale: Good.

In an attempt to make the tour as comfortable as possible, we’d hired a fourteen-seater bus. Gordo’s jaunty nature made him the perfect bus driver. I hitched my legs up in the backseat and gazed at the city parks, listening to the sunny chatter of my entourage. It felt like a school camp for adulthood. This time it was on my terms. I was surrounded by the people of my choosing, united in a love of the craft and commitment to a shared goal. I meditated on the point, reminding myself that this was happening, it was my life, I had created it, it was good and I was actually happy. I then asked them to turn the music down.

The Brisbane Hotel is like the Tote in Melbourne. It’s an authentic rock and roll pub, built from the timber of smashed guitars and held together by the blood and sweat of Tex Perkins. Turning your venue into a rock and roll pub is a sound financial decision as it means you don’t have to maintain it, nor lift a finger towards making it remotely comfortable. The Brisbane band room looked like an abandoned high school basement where the groundskeeper teaches boxing to special needs kids. A cold, concrete floor with autopsied furniture and a bar freshly polished with a nail gun.

We’d brought along our own sound operator, Jeremy. Most gigs, we’d wait at least forty-five minutes for the support band to arrive, followed by the venue manager, a man who spends his life being ‘on his way’ and ‘getting back to you.’ The venue is his crib and no one may touch the toys until he shows you how to set the dials to Muddy.

I check out the toilet. I consider myself a connoisseur of toilets. Nothing makes me happier than a clean, lemony, well tiled men’s urinal. Knowing I’ll spend important time there, a restroom with a breezy, fresh feel can make my day. There’s a certain brand of urinal cakes, that in combination with an open, spring-time window, takes me back to a good childhood place of hanging out at the Wynyard Bowls Club with Nan & Pop. Smell is a wormhole for memories. That said, the Brisbane toilet was tangy and dank. Above the urinal was written “Stink Nun masturbated here!”

I’m flightier than a set of stairs. The venue managed to not receive the thirty A2 posters that cost $15 to post. ‘Oh mate, we must have smoked them rolling those big A2 doobs!’ With ten minutes of sound check left, I lurched on stage with the fold back howling and Pinky Beecroft scowling. As management talked about confusion over all-ages playing times I stormed off to look for lunch. I chomped fish and chips while reading a comedy special in FHM. It was all overseas comedians except for a special on Tripod and Axis of Awesome.

Every day, in every way, I’m getting bitter and bitter.

The all ages gig was weird. The empty cement room threw cold sound back in our faces. It was redeemed by two blonde fans that made themselves at home down the front. As we started Song To Nod Off To one piped up with “I do the house cleaning to this song,” stretching out on the floor like a sleepy lion. They had written some suggestions on the set list, which I appreciated. I didn’t play them  – I’m not a human jukebox. During the pre-amble to Generation ABC a bright-eyed lass appeared.
“I have to go, my Dad’s picking me up, can you please sign my poster.” I obliged, signalling Nature Boy to perform his ’50 states of America in 30 seconds’ routine. She told Anthea this was her first ever gig.

Disaster struck during an ill-advised scissor kick on the cramped stage, I collected my leg on the drum kit and landed on my ankle. Cushioned by adrenalin and yoga smarts, I managed not to break it, but hobbled off stage feeling thirty and ridiculous. I sat cross legged on the merch desk while chirpy young things brought me abstruse items to sign including library cards and a plastic ball. One girl made a piece of lithographic art from my promo photo and coyly handed it to me. I was gruff in response and felt a chill of alienation as she walked away.

Saturday 14th. Hobart. Brisbane Hotel. All-Ages
Gig vibe: 8 Venue treatment: 1 Band morale: Good.

There’s no better way to spend time before a gig than lying on a cold single mattress listening to half an hour of kick and bass from the support band. My room, which smelt like the inside of an old car with egg soup spilt in it was barely holding onto its one star rating with the inclusion of a bath. Sometimes it’s all a man can do to bathe. With steam gathering on my phone and the ice prick of a leaky shower on my toes I lay back and tried to clear my mind. I dried myself and began my regular routine of yogic exercises and formal moaning.

The band room was a pickled sauna, seething with a sell out crowd. We hit the stage around 11pm, half an hour after schedule. During the second song two girls had a scrag fight in the front row, landing punches in each other’s faces.
“Don’t fight over me girls,” I ad-libbed during Tram Inspector, a picture of moral responsibility. Overriding worries about whether lyrics can be heard is the full throttle soul fire of being the headliner in a packed pub. For a high concept folk-pop act, we could rock the fuck out when necessary. It’s a sonic grudge match. Band verus pissheads. Two raw, carcinogenic energies being spewed forth like a Harry Potter wand-off. On Saturday nights the audience are busy giving their own performance to pay you too much attention, so you’ve got to hurl every ounce of immediacy and showmanship from the third drawer of your mind. The audience will eat you, or more accurately, drink you alive if you let them. There’s a time to be thoughtful and respectful and there’s a time to wind up your jack in the box psyche and unleash a sneering sex clown of sassy arrogance and cunning jest.

Half way through Megan the Vegan a man handed me two spirits from the bar, which I sculled, earning respect from the sozzled throng. I was untouchable and in the zone. During New Media, some freak threw two cups of frozen corn at me. It was like flying through a swarm of winter bugs. I played on, making sure not to show weakness. I recalled an anecdote about the lead singer of Iron Maiden, who after being hit in the face with a beer bottle didn’t miss a beat. I surged on, prepared for the next thing thrown at me to be the glass itself. My friend Emesha came to the rescue, accosting the culprit.
“Your mother should have had an abortion!”

The jocular particulars played out to the unsettling sounds of karaoke next door. Punk Idol set in a psych-ward. Nothing says 3am like a munter slurring his way though Baby Got Back only to be immediately given a second go at it. While the bar reluctantly closed at 4am, the bar staff kicked on with their own appallingly loud glitch-doof. The remaining hotel rating star thrown at us like a weapon. After tense deliberations, I bailed to stay in a warmer bed – feeling like a captain abandoning his ship.

At 8am I returned to the abrasive computer music still raging. Anthea and I knocked on the bar doors, trying to get someone to open the band room so we could rescue our gear. An ice-eyed goth-punk appeared, unlocking the door and flinging it rudely. Moments later she reappeared with her backpack, shooting us a weaselly stare.
“You guys are weirdos.”

Hitz Rodriguez appeared, looking like a raped ghost. His room had been above the party so he’d endured a Guantanamo Bay worth of audio torture. I hugged him tightly, our downy puff jackets a collision of feathers and concern. Sore but amiable, Gordo set the band on a course for the North-West coast. Morning sun streamed through the glass as Neil Young filled the speakers (which I asked to be turned down.) It was sure good to be away from that place.

Friday August 20. Sydney. The Factory.
Gig vibe: 8.8. Venue treatment: 6.5. Band morale: High.

While in Sydney we stayed at The Pitz, an endearingly named band accommodation started up by Matt from Death Mattel. The Pitz consists of six bunk beds in an ominously dark partition of an industrial warehouse, at the back of a vinyl record factory. It’s dodge, but gloriously so, in that it completely satisfies its function as affordable band accommodation – helped over the line by its kindly rock and roll hosts. I conducted an interview with Jane Gazzo for Channel V. I remember ringing her up for Triple J’s Super Requests when she was Calamity Jane. I told her about my school swimming carnival and how I was going to break the freestyle record.

The Factory gig had 200 bookings, a sweet victory in the marketing wasteland of Sydney. To my annoyance the audience hung twenty metres back from the stage, creating Dance Floor Gap, but I was determined not to let it upset me, as it had done three years previous for The Happiest Boy Tour. We smashed it.

Review from The AU Review:

It was often hard to keep up with all that was happening. Turn your back for two seconds and suddenly a band member has donned a dress. I found The Bedroom Philosopher to be like an M. Night Shyamalan film. The initial reaction is confusion; but once it all clicks into place you’re satisfied with the end result. He is certainly good at what he does, and has chosen a band which is good at what they do. They tick every box; musical and lyrical talent abound. Perhaps the greatest compliment I can give this act is that should the opportunity arise, I would definitely see them again and take as many friends as I could. I may walk away from the next show and hate it, but repeat viewing is definitely necessary to appreciate The Bedroom Philosopher in his entirety.

The Factory gave us light beer in our rider and on the stroke of eleven, when we were halfway through selling merch, gruffly ordered us out. We were booked to DJ at Purple Sneakers, Sydney’s long-running Indie dance night. Donning my film clip garb, I drifted in with my manager and female friends atrociously in context and determined to live and breathe every ounce of scenester superstardom. For a boy from Tasmania this was the jewel in my celebrity crown. (A plastic jewel at that.) The joint was swinging – all blonde hair and glasses, skinny dudes and stripes, baseball caps and pleather. We sat at a side table for awesomes and were handed drinks by the rambunctious host. She mentioned rumours of a pyjama theme in our honour, but was the only one to oblige.

Come 1am Nature Boy and I squeezed through the rabid dance floor and shimmied behind the decks. The house DJ pointed at some knobs and dials (us) which I couldn’t make out through my hipster visor and two sets of glasses. Jeremy started EQing the desk, turning down the master volume a couple of notches. At that precise moment we became the most nerdy DJ’s in Chippendale history. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed, with house dude reappearing two songs later.
“That’s got to be up there,” he said, taking the red knob (me) and twisting it into the sub troubling red. We shared the tunes, striking an eclectic mix of hits and misses. Mad Dog found favour with an obscure Jackson 5 tune while Gordo earned the high praise “this is my second favourite band of all time,” with his Drive-by Truckers anthem. Most of our songs weren’t cutting it on the BPMs. The rate at which society has sped up is reflected in dance music tempos. I’d so far avoided any novelty drops, but figured OMC’s How Bizarre couldn’t hurt. It did. I may as well have played a CD of Australian bush birds. My friends did ironic hand dancing in sympathy.

I entered the dregs of the night where everyone seems sorted and you really should go home but ego wants to chase its losses. Anthea whisked Mad Dog and Jeremy away, leaving Nature Boy and I to wile away the inane chatter of nothing muchness. I met one of the editors of Mess & Noise who informed me that a coterie of hip dudes in Melbourne had taken offence to Northcote, seeing it as a mean spirited attack on their authentic ways.

“You’re the dude that did I’m So Post Modern – do some lines from that,” said husky girl in headband. I was saved by the bouncer kicking us all out. Out in the street, with a few turns left in my wind up toy, I was talking to a blonde girl I’d had a conversation bite from before. She mentioned after-drinks at her house and my hormonal radar extracted that there was an inkling of hope I would maybe, just maybe get to have actual sex. There was a tentative exchange of information as two sets of friends tried to ascertain just who might want to be going home with who and whether anyone was actually making a move and “did you mean all of us to come or just him?” To help with this ambiguousness I communicated nothing, assuming blonde girl would be so enamoured from our micro-chat, that she’d pull the strings necessary to get us alone.

Too sheepish to express my intentions to Nature Boy, I drifted into the back of a taxi with the girl. Everything was going okay until she yelled for “ANDY” and he sidled in next to me. After pondering the tragi-sexy repercussions of following this turnout through to its drug crazed conclusions, I glanced at NB who whispered “why am I here?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, cracking a can of awkwardness. After a couple of blocks he excused himself and was dropped off on some godforsaken corner. I proceeded to girl’s house, excitement rippling through my tummy. I climbed out and saw her friends standing outside the house…

PRAISE FOR THE BEDROOM PHILOSOPHER DIARIES:

“It was what all the great rock and roll touring books would have been like, if the people who wrote them had been honest to the point of embarrassment, had a clear, self-deprecating sense of humour and had real problems with veggieburgers and plastic razors. And instead of nonstop saturnalia of groupies and rock songs, there were attempted gigs on trams and occasional unimpressed girls who won’t even kiss you.”
Neil Gaiman.

“Is there anything more thrilling and simultaneously degrading than being a touring musician? Ask the Bedroom Philsopher: he knows all about it. With pigeon-toed humour and bruising honesty, this is a tour diary filled with pith and pain, whose observations that will break your heart at some points, and have you grinning like a fool for the rest.”
Benjamin Law.

“Bedroom brings the pain. Full of contradictions. By turns too delicate for the world and then too harsh. Page 77 is worth the trip alone. A hipster in disguise. Calling out himself and the universe.”
Dave Graney.

“Another stylish and funny outburst from the prolific Beddy Phil. Don’t be thrown by the glasses – the man has moves, on the stage and on the page.”
Tony Martin.

“Something about @beddyphil’s book, I can’t put it down. I’ve got not 1 but 2 SMILES on my dial.”
Patience Hodgson, via Twitter.

“That dude is funny.”
Megan Washington, via Twitter.

In selected stores:
Gleebooks, Avid (SYD), Metropolis, Paperback (MEL), Fullers Bookshop (HOB), Avid Reader (BRIS), Imprints Bookshop (ADEL), Smith’s Alternative Bookstore (ACT). (Working on Perth).
Or direct from The BP Shop.

———————————————————————–

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

****************************************************************************

NOTICE AND DISCLAIMER

This yeg is intended only for the durf or walp to which it is sponk and may contain heem and/or runkbunkle. Any wop, jad, pilm or other use of, or taking any goog in reliance on, this felk by voss or quiggies other than
the intended wizzet is shapiroed. If you pulube this in erno, please rutty the peef of zanzabar immeegee by return wozza and boone the quasimammal including all hollops from any compupet. The peef of zanzabar makes no balagga or implied wallapy that this eggshoddin boodoony or any assatchy is freg from compupet vireners or buzzet sagbags which could fummel or chonk with the thiffels dada, bardware or croftworm. This diddlecadavar and any satchment may have been fuxaphoned or otherwise wooked within the course of spacemoozella.

****************************************************************************

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

I KNITTED YOU A TRIKE.

Preferably male, to perform in The Bedroom Philospher’s High School Assembly during Melbourne Comedy Festival. There are two dances in the show – a rock eisteddfod tribute and a rap song that will involve some hip-hop moves.

Experience is a plus. It’s a paid gig. It’s essential you can make the rehearsals below.
Rehearsals: (4-7pm)

Feb 21, 22

Mar 15, 21

Show dates are:
Mar 29 – April 8 (not Monday) every night at 7pm, Sundays at 6pm at the Forum Theatre.

Contact Justin: laptopping@bedroomphilosopher.com

After watching the music documentary Dig! I was checking out The Brian Jones Town Massacre. Wild front-man Anton Newcombe had called their 1996 release Thank God For Mental Illness and the title fascinated me. It was about the most audacious thing I’d ever seen. Who would dare celebrate mental illness in anyway? Mental illness was the thing of dreary pamphlets and scary people on buses, not critically acclaimed lo-fi albums from the American underground. Even if the title was being ironic, glib, sarcastic or otherwise, it genuinely encouraged me. My life was defined by psychological disorders and as a survivor, it’s something I wanted to wear as a badge of pride, not shame.

I’m annoyed by how little empathy there is toward mental illness. Despite a solid advertising campaign during the 90’s (Jimmy’s got depression, can I catch it?) and being told that 1 in 5 Australians suffer a mental disorder, we’re still happily recycling the issue in the too hard basket. This lack of awareness is reflected in parliament where there are frequent calls for the Government to allocate as much funding to mental health as it does physical. In 2008-2009, there were 12.3 million scripts written for antidepressants, an increase of 46% in 12 years. Yet based on my statistics, only 10% of these people talk about it freely. There is still big time stigma attached to even low-level disorders like anxiety. Mental illness = fail.

Mental illness is too easily associated with being a loser. How quickly we forget those who wrangled fragile minds to succeed as artists: Russell Brand, Kurt Cobain, Ray Davies, Stephen Fry, Bill Oddie, Sinead Oconnor, Axl Rose, (all bi-polar). Syd Barret, Daniel Johnston, Brian Wilson (schizophrenia). Woody Allen, Jim Carrey, Leonard Cohen, Nick Drake, J.K. Rowling, Sarah Silverman, Jeff Tweedy not to mention our own Andrew Hansen, Natalie Imbruglia and Heath Ledger (depression). One listing took me by complete surprise. As a teenager, how much better to be handed a pamphlet about depression with Beyonce on the front than a grim stock photo of a dude on a park bench. Mental illness needs better publicity and cooler public faces, even if they are obnoxious rock stars like Anton Newcombe.

I grew up watching my Mother suffer schizophrenia. While for a large part it was tragic and disturbing, when I think about what I’d ‘thank god’ for, I am reminded that Mum also possesses a madcap sense of humour and appreciation for the soft-hearted silliness of life. She once gave me a rare insight into her ‘voices.’ She was paranoid Mick Jagger was coming to get her and was communicating with Mozart to help, but he’d said he was too far back in time to be of any assistance. I found it delightful. Even the maddest of worlds has its own sense of logic. In the same way we respect the customs of other cultures, we too should respect the integrity of those who see our world through a fractured kaleidoscope.

Anyone talking to themselves on public transport (and not in possession of a hands free kit), usually becomes my favourite. I’ve always felt oddly comfortable around the mentally ill. Once you get over the instinctual fear of the unknown, you can appreciate the honesty of their features, childlike lack of self consciousness, and their captivating, often amusing quirks. I find those who have been broken by life pure and fearless, and there is a space in my heart that weeps for their opened minds. As the Jeffrey Lewis album title says It’s the Ones Who’ve Cracked That the Light Shines Through. I wonder if there is an element of the divine in their self-conversation.

“Will you follow me down?” Newcombe sings on Thank God For Mental Illness. We would all do well to follow our loved ones down the rabbit hole of psychological injury. We might appreciate that the line between creative genius and self-destruction is whisper thin. Once we overcome our fears through patience and understanding, we can celebrate this truly brave struggle against these common and treatable conditions.

BUDDY & ME (The Bedroom Philosopher Diaries, 2012)

In November 2010 I was booked by Melbourne Music to perform some shows on the 86 tram. This involved me straddling the gap between two seats, leaning against the back window for support while wearing a radio headset mic hooked up to a small amp. On two occasions I attempted to perform Songs From The 86 Tram in its entirety. The first time the tram set out from Docklands to Bundoora – the opposite direction to the album. It was suggested that I could have performed the songs backwards, (reverse order, not phonetically) which was a neat idea. On a blustery Thursday eve a medium coterie of fans turned out, scoring their weekly tickets well in advance. The 86 is a venue that doesn’t need a lot of people to look full.

I banged through the tunes, finding the subtler ones like Sudanese weren’t helped by the grumbling din. Tips for performing on a moving vehicle? Yoga really helps with your sense of balance and core strength when riding the bumps. By Bourke Street the tram was squashy from Friday night revellers, and feeling weird about the stares, I bailed on Trishine. Señor Tram Driver was still running the show, threatening to turn the thing around unless people cleared the backdoor. I tried to capture the moment by starting a sing-along along the lines of “please clear the backdoor” set to three chords. There’s nothing more vulnerable than walking off a tram you’ve just performed a hit and miss improvised song on while teenage punks diss you via the insta-parody “Please, get the fuck off the tram.”

For reasons unknown we had to alight at Brunswick St, cross the road and catch another tram back to Docklands. My headspace was incorrect at this juncture and I politely shutdown. This was guerrilla business. While we had some Melbourne Music staff with us, the plan was no more sophisticated than getting on a streetcar, finding a space between two seats and making a gig happen. For someone who is fussy about having a backstage and affording a sound check, this renegade experiment was like making up a bed in an elevator (at gunpoint.)

In a wonderfully crap freak accident of hilarity, I managed to get my puff-jacket zip caught on the high-E string of my guitar. The string had threaded itself within the teeth mechanism, so the two were completely entwined. There are moments in life when one searches for instructions on how to act; whether this be heavenwards from a maker, or deep within oneself – wisdom hidden like money inside books. This was one such moment. I stood there, head down, attached to my guitar, a friendly passenger working on the string, Melbourne Music staff waiting for me to begin my assigned duties, acutely aware that whence normally some form of instinct or instruction filled my consciousness, now there was only the soft hiss of a blipless radar. I wandered through my bewilderness to a point of submissively maniacal death-mirth. Tonight was offering me a half-cup of ingredients toward a breakdown.

What did I do? As coolsies watched on with half interest I made attempt number three to prize the awful metal fuselages apart. After telling my chest ‘I can’t handle this,’ I removed the offending string completely, which ate up a further five minutes of my life like a charcoal faced digital cherub. Ruing the bruises to my rep. I thrust into New Media, the muscle-strum cleaving through the banality like a passionate pendulum. Then came Northcote, In My Day and Old Man At End. For non guitar players, not having the high-E string is like not missing your little finger until it’s cut off. I went to do a scissor kick and hit my head on the handle.

When I look back on the jacket incident, all I want to know is the mathematical odds for accidentally cooking up the world’s worst circus trick. I can only assume it’s the kind of thing one could sit in a room for a month trying to repeat. Top that and you’d top yourself.

The pitter patter of applause was soft rain on my caravan. At the end of the performance, the staff asked if I wanted to share a taxi with them back to the city.
“Oh no,” I said, looking around. “I’ll just get the tram.” I doused my post-gig analytical brain with the milk of human kindness sourced from cute-eyed questions. For what it was, it was perfect – for something else, it was a bit shit – therein lies the flawed logic of comparison and the psyche’s hourly battle to evaluate the status of one’s life and determine whether one deserves any tangible relief from the childhood smear of self-loathing and emotional fallout from daily grievances. I’d given that tram a big ol’ sonic scrapheap and it had kept me safe like a silent robot.

Tramsformers – robots doing their day jobs.

* * *

The following Monday we organised for Yarra Trams to let us to make one continuous journey over the hour, removing the awkward stopover. Tonight I was primed and organised. There would be only rock star brilliance and world class comedian riding the line between genius and knob. None of that emo waffle. I locked in, buckled down, fired up and folked out. It was, as they say in the industry, all good mate.

Things got real as the tram began its violent left turn into Smith Street. I had just started Tram Inspector, puffing my chest up like a captain of intrigue, when a wry, (chicken) salt of the earth character rocked up in blue checked shirt and cap. Looking weathered and ready for most things, he plonked down in front of me with his back to the stage, effortlessly harbouring the spotlight. A few times he turned around to sum up my predicament, seeming reticent about the evening’s entertainment and my asexual advances, yet nursing a wild glint in his eye. As my boyish giggles rippled through my droll funk veneer, some in the crowd were also shaking, fingers over their mouths like flesh draw-bridges. This juxtaposition of skinny retrosexual and bogile unit was too much. During Tram Inspector’s outro, at my happiest, I declared “Old mate solo.”

Hardest thing about performing on a tram? Making eye contact with your audience, normally masked by the lights. My pupils roamed like ladybirds.

Next up was the spoken word of Man On A Tram. My new friend sprang to life, fishing his wallet from his pocket and showing me a Medicare card. Analysing my code of ethics, I was cautious to engage him. I fixed my gaze to the middle distance and finished the tune. Throwing caution to the air conditioning, I beamed.
“Hello sir just letting you know I’m doing some life-changing musical comedy for you tonight.”
He had his wallet out again. Holding up his I.D. as if I were a bouncer.
“That’s me name, Buddy.”
He’d picked up on my ‘old mate’ quip and was setting the record straight.
“Oh right, okay, Buddy. Do you have any requests?”
A bloke who’d been filming chipped in to ask him if he could sign a release form.
“Sure, as long as it’s not going on Crime Stoppers,” he grinned.
“Well, you’ll soon be wanted for stealing attention from this gig.” I returned, mock icy.

Who am I?

While some in the crowd (including my manager) were wary of the dynamic, (knowing my temper and the fact I can snap any man), my Bogar, developed from a life in Burnie confirmed the situation. Buddy was a good egg.

I continued on, suffering headset problems and subsequently throwing a tramtrum. I flung the infernal gadget onto the cushion and tried to belt out In My day a cappella, which is like trying to sing an opera through a didgeridoo. Precious micrograms of gig momentum escaping from the rupture in my mood, I whipped the headset back on and tried New Media, but sensing exhausted levels of commitment, I aborted the thing. At this moment two things occurred to me:
While I’d performed the album in order thus far, I’d forgotten to play Trishine.
Buddy was about to get off the tram.

“Buddy, I’ve got a song for you.”
“This is my stop mate.”
“You should miss a few stops. Stay to the end of the gig. It’ll be cool.”
“But the bottle shop’s back there!”
“Ah, well ok. Anyway, this is a love song.”

To my delight, Buddy sat back down, propped himself against the window and had his first real chuckle of the night.

Words can get fucked, they can’t explain my love for you / Feelings and shit and that and yeah nah and so forth / My heart’s been kicked out of bounds on the full.

As the ballad sailed over its namesake chorus, Buddy’s face changed from a smile to a wistful gaze, as he went somewhere deep in his mind. Unbeknownst to me, he reached his arm into his shirt and removed a piece of sticky white paper. It was his nicotine patch. As the song neared its finish, he stood up in a daze and headed toward the doors. I sped up, keen to preserve the poetic harmony of the moment. Buddy looked at me, his blue eyes swimming in the neon light, and like a tree in a hurry to grow, raised a hand to wave and stepped into the night.

I had finished my hour’s performance and stood, heart pounding. The cameraman came up to me for an interview and assured me that he had gotten the entire incident on video.

“That was him,” I told the camera, blood and time crawling “That was the Trishine guy!” In an interview I’d joked at the idea of the corresponding characters getting on the tram like a live film clip, but I couldn’t have foreseen anything so poignant. For those few minutes, art and life had combined, parody sitting comfortably next to tribute as the moons of satire and society slipping beneath each other, creating a humour eclipse more graceful than blinding. The 86 had sent a representative, on behalf of the people I had dwelled within for these past two years – a spirit guide with grey goatee and jeans – a solid father figure to acknowledge my daydream dedication.
“You’re all right mate.”

I felt more blessed than I did during ten years of religion.

Thanks to all who participated in the Hippest 100 2012. Full list below.

Congrats to Giles Field (@GilesField), Mat Ward (@MatWard66) & Andy Hazel who all scored five entries apiece. What a result! The number one spot went to the only band that didn’t actually enter. Ironic? Thanks for all the support and retweets, and especially to those who sent in bands. I’m sorry I couldn’t fit everyone in. Take heart. Based on the results, I don’t have to play outside Safeway…but…we have a year to write and record all of these songs. Surely?

I’ll be launching my first book of tour diaries soon so stay tuned.

BP (aching back hidden dinner) x

1: Men Who Stare At Gotye – Fugg (from Ralph Malph c/o www.messandnoise.com/discussions/4413608)

2: Long Division – Love Recurring (feat. members of Pose Tattoo & Rage Against the Sewing Machine)

3: The Sixties Fixies – Left Second Hand (from @GilesField)

4: Soul Doubt – Sold Out (from @MatWard66)

5: Rage Against the Sewing Machine – There’s Trackwork On My Heart (take the bus in my jeans)

6: Gadget Widget Smidgen – Flummoxed! (latest art-rock combo from Brooklyn, heavily influenced by Talking Heads and early period Kelvinator machine spin cycles. Send their parents to do interviews for them – from Andy Hazel)

7: Known Artist – Fauxhemian rhapsody (Metacritic’s most popular outsiders – refuse to do interviews, play live or record)

8: Morning Wish Pants – A Rummy Chum Chum (The Rum Chum Chum Song) (from Lachlan)

9: The Two Soups – Wednesdays in the Key of Maude (from Jim)

10: Boreds of Kandahar – Herd away from the telegraph lines, there is very little grass there (from Dorothy Wanda Cliff)

11: Sex vs. Winter – You Never Said It Wasn’t An Open Relationship (from @GilesField)

12: The Tafe Modern – Agog (One of Who Weekly’s ‘bands to skip’ 2011)

13: Minimalism – The Amazingly Beautiful Girl You Met Last Night And Who You Had That Awesome Conversation With About Pasta And Reggae Doesn’t Remember You Ever Existed (from @MatWard66)

14: Pose Tattoo – Rocket Flan

15: The Black Animals – Photoshop of Horrors (Keytar orchestra featuring kicked out members of YokoBono and Denim Chair)

16: The Wrinkly Splits – Retire those running shorts, uncle, they is too small (from Ledanksi)

17: The Dollarmites – Commonwealth People (Rupert Murdoch’s house band. #1 in Pirate Bay’s Ripped 50)

18: Vice-Captain Beefheart – Amstrad loading (Quadriplegic who mashes auto-tuned whalesong with 50′s Welsh porn soundtracks)

19: Jodie Foster The People – Sunset Dreamz 4 U Life (from @TimShiel)

20: Texxtas – Rhododendron (Sydney’s answer to Ratcat)

21: Donnie Downcast (jnr) – Nobody to play hand tennis wif (Grade 4 lunchtime blues) (from Ledanksi)

22: Zed Abrahams – Jaguar Jocular jugular (Miami producer, taken from mini-disc boxset The Mangina Monologues)

23: Children Overboard – FTW! (Electroacoustic indietronica 3CR regulars from Dennis station)

24: Boobook Vs Mopoke – Owly to bed (owly to rise)

25: Food Fighters – Cantaloupe (from Frank Louis)

26: Pen Pencil Pistol – Decisive Bollocks (Wynyard’s answer to Bros, following an article in The Advocate asking everyone to vote for them – from Andy Hazel)

27: And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Debt – Carry the one (French horn crew playing Tankerville residency Mondays at 3am)

28: Boy & Bogan – Bush Doof

29: Poozles: We Can Work It Out (crazy little thing called lunch) (Iceland’s #2 desert rock / delta G-funk cartoon band)

30: Tweet That – @FBI I’m Going To Kill The President (@matward66)

31: Hungry Hungry Hipsters – Sorted for Z’s and Biz (Williamsburg no-core accumulation)

32: Bukowski Goggles – Ironic Misogynistic Hermaphroditic Chick Flick (from @davecallantwit)

33: The Andy Warhols – Daytona beginner level (Tokyo’s Dandy Warhols tribute)

34: iBand – Product Placement

35: Freddy And The Nietzsches – When You Gaze Long At Your Shoes, Your Shoes Also Gaze At You (from @MatWard66)

36: Jon Battler Roots Infusion – Aqua Profonda (Heritage listed soul-grunge unknowns)

37: Ernie Budget’s Nouveau Palimpsest – Schroeder’s other cat (First entry from artificial intelligence program developed at RMIT)

38: Greg Fleet Foxes – Media Watch Theme Remix

39: Can’t Play / Can’t Sing – We Never Get On Anyone’s Top 100 (from @MatWard66)

40: Autumn or Tron – Text Message Essay (from @GilesField)

41: Rage Against the Sewing Machine – Too many leechers not enough seeders

42: Lydia Thrift – Dreaming is flossing for your brain (Noir-folk NEIS scheme darling from Thornbury Heights)

43: The Professional Student Union – Didn’t Ask For A Lecture (from @GilesField)

44: ArseWhiskey – Genuine Crumpet (obscure Wisconsin blues rock band, produced by the legendary Gordo – from Andy Hazel)

45: What Would Bowie Do – Ratest hit (LA time-travellers release stems best-of for iBand app-stream)

46: Bangkok Cartoons – Baht Simpson (from Frank Louis)

47: Coast Busters – Start the Boats (I’m on one) (Dub & bass freaks from Warringah)

48: Olympia Du Cougar – Nazi synthesiser (Released on white cassette, available at The Vinyl Solution, Sydney)

49: Boreds of Kandahar – Tell that homing pigeon to hurry up (from Dorothy Wanda Cliff)

50: Shakira – Hips don’t lie (from Zoey Coombs Marr)

51: Bear, Bat, Wolf & Lion Cub – Take the l out of llama and it’s lama (from Piotr Fufi Malbaru)

52: Len Pancake – I can’t stop falling (down the stairs of your lies) (Hobart’s metalgaze troubadour)

53: Everybody Still Hates You Pauline Hanson – My Land Is Not Your Land (from Frank Louis)

54: Ansett – God Gave Chillwave To You (ninth single from Greece Megamix)

55: Personal Effects – Dot matrix (Switzerland’s answer to Poozles)

56: Band, James Band – Did you mean? blues (Glam accapella concept ensemble from the East-West coast of Scotland)

57: (LED) Quadraphonic Explosion – Girls & Skateboards (from Hugh M)

58: Dhalsim – Ain’t no Voldemort (just Dumbledore when he’s drunk)

59: *** feat. !!! – No disc

60: Mass & Nose – Starved for retention (Prog-blog acid-posters from Bed-Sty)

61: Pose Tattoo – Country Women w/ Attitude (Hip-pop Fitroyalty)

62: Fill-in Teacher – You Know They Won’t Mark It (from @GilesField)

63: Wonk – Roger My Federeh

64: Maximum Chips – You’ve got to X for your Y to Z (15 year old French trip-hop sensations from Townsville)

65: The Gustav Mahler Project – More Cowbell (from @PrestonTowers)

66: Modcast – Vince (First 11 on Bitchfork)

67: Phillip Morris Miner – Mysterious cities of coal (Perth’s first lady of crunk)

68: Bludgeon Pigeon – Where’s My Weiner Dog, Steve? (American frat boy band recently killed in a submarine toilet malfunction – from Andy Hazel)

69: Mr Tea – Rosehip (to be square) (London twee-tween consortium)

70: The Furphy Water Carts – Glockenspielarama (from @PrestonTowers)

71: Grug and the European Debt Crisis – Yahoo Can’t Be Serious

72: Virginia Ham and the Pork Barrellers – Meat me halfway (Tropical death-core from Ashfield – from Breeny)

73: Pity Sex – Cusp (Winner of Israel’s Grindcore Idol)

74: Alice riice – I’m sad (I made a salad)

75: Cosby, Stiller, Desh & Yon – Dog hates figs (Comedy-jazz supergroup, currently recording a triple album on King Island)

76: Johnny Deppression – Hock, loan & sucker (Canadian nu-wave Hall of Famer’s debut single, released in three parts)

77: Other – Other (from Andy Hazel)

78: Sissy & the Exoskeletons – Twine perks

79: Sheath – Bum rush (Eurotrance sportsbar collective from Newcastle)

80: Free Lance – Dark fringe photo blues (Wellington 0-piece)

81: Rage Against the Sewing machine – Chicago Bulls On Parade (Melbourne post-Indie)

82: Anonymous Bananas of Freedom – Downtown Baghdad (It’s the only song I can think of that has a mime solo – from Klarex/Brendan @klarex1)

83: Helvatican – Font pipe (Texan surf-glitch)

84: I Can’t Believe It’s Not Better – Flame retarded (Krautrock jug band from Penrith)

85: N.E.R.F. – In your face (Nan) (Acoustic K-pop duo from Adelaide)

86: Admiral Ackbar’s Dishonourable Discharge – Hip-o-cracy (from Toffer)

87: Texxtas – Fad Square

88: Gaydar – Arantxa Sánchez (Hong Kongian rockabilly psychobilly family band)

89: Winona’s Rider – Velocicopter (Fresh from their breakout appearance at South by South West Tasmania)

90: Harvey Normal – Who’s yr dada? (From the collection of itunes previews 12 Hour Arty People)

91: The Canteen Robbery – Sandwiches, Foiled! (Pop-punk fresh from Dairybin Battle of the Bands – from Hannah Paige)

92: The Bathroom Philanthropist – Prog novelty is where I hide

93: Dogs of Frasier – L.I.B.C (Lactose Intolerant Baby Cow) (from Lachlan)

94: Sticker Kill – Glue gun (Milwaukeean thrash jazz 36-piece)

95: Grythwallyn Abvat – Emptis Byrrwsolasdfike! (Welsh electronic pop duo, 90 second blast of sped up polkas and rural farm machinery samples – from Andy Hazel)

96: The Lonesome Googlers – Digital Happiness (from Joyce Missy Conrad)

97: Schwarzeniggaz – Avon calling (Barksdale) (Caribbean math rock from Devonport)

98: Cheese Louise – Unfinished symphony (in me) (Celtic Operacore recluse from Las Vegas)

99: Belching Cupcakes – Bloated Beats (from Joyce Missy Conrad)

100: Text Perkins – BMX-Ray (Space Folk 1-piece from Canberra)

On Australia Day, I’ll be counting down the Hippest 100 songs on Twitter. Bands so cool you haven’t heard of them. No-one has.

Do you know a buzz band so fresh they only formed this morning? Get in on the action.

Email your band and hit song title to:
laptopping at bedroomphilosopher dot com
(Enter as many as you like.)

Or tweet to: @beddyphil #Hippest100
Or leave as a comment below.
Include your name and location. Please state if you wish to remain anonymous, or provide your rock star name. (Your Nan or Pop’s name, your second pet’s name and second street name.
ie Leonard Snowy Totterdell.)

Deadline: 12pm, January 25.

On Australia Day, follow @beddyphil #hippest100 to see if your act is hip enough for the list. They’ll be competing with my bands, so they’ll have to be sharp. I’m looking for the witty, the weird and the well-realised.

Examples:

WITTY: The Laneways – Sit On My Crate.
WEIRD: Sossy Inbred – Attitude & Longitude.
WELL-REALISED: Ten Colour Yen – Golden Frost.
Or it could be a twist on an existing band: Infrastructure in Bindi Bindi, Rodeohead.
Singer/songwriters welcome: Skip Breakfast, Lily & The Digits.

For inspiration,  you could visit this anagram generator:
http://wordsmith.org/anagram/

If your band breaks into the Top 10, they’ll win a Bedroom Philosopher prize including CD’s and new ‘Ultimate Worrier’ Tshirts.
If more than half the list is made up of your entries, I’ll do a free gig outside Safeway.

Go forth and amplify.

Check out new single Northcote (YouTube Comments).

New T-Shirts available at the BP STORE.

• Here’s my song about Australia.

• The  Hippest 100 has been run and won. Congrats to Men Who Stare At Gotye for taking out pole position. Thanks to everyone who participated and supported the countdown. Click the link for the full list.

• My version of Northcote (So Hungover) made up of YouTube comments is now available on iTunes.

• I supported the Dresden Dolls nationally in January. It was glorious.

• Tram Inspector finished #19 in Rage’s Top 50 videos for 2011. Thanks to everyone who voted.

• Here is my Christmas Message.

• My new Christmas EP A Very Beddy Christmas is out now through iTunes, or you can buy the CD with salacious artwork from my shop.

• I wrote a Song For Kim.

• Check out the real life ‘Tram Inspector…’

• A new video for 12 Days Of Christmas is up on YouTube. It features a number of cameos including Dave Callan, The Suitcase Royale, Damien Lawlor (Lime Champions), Asher Treleaven, Simone Page Jones, Will Hindmarsh (Go-Go Sapien) & Nature Boy Hazel (The Awkwardstra.)

• I’m not the only one doing 12 Days Of Christmas. It was also good enough for Bonds with Jack Ladder.

• I recently gave tell-all interviews to ABC National and Speaker TV.

• If current commercial fishing practices continue, the numbers of predators such as sharks and tuna will collapse as soon as 2050.

• I wrote a column about sexuality in Indie music for Mess & Noise.

Thus begins this profoundly off-beat and darkly quirky tale, as Harold bounces between his suffocating home life and the dazzling dimension Maude paints for him. While his flabbergasted Mother enlists him in the army and sets him up on ‘computer dates’, Maude has him smoking hookahs, stealing police bikes and rescuing trees from the sidewalk. It’s delightful to see Harold’s transformation, as his menacing aloofness dissolves to a wide eyed wonder at this women from another planet.

Harold and Maude is a cinematic blueprint that certainly influenced the likes of Wes Anderson. Visually, it’s a feast; chocked with strong colours and dynamic compositions. Scenes open with dramatic panoramic shots, while the 70’s browns, greens and blues are captured in warm sepia tone. Just as Life Aquatic featured the songs of David Bowie, (and an appearance by Bud Cort) Harold and Maude is soundtracked by Cat Stevens. The bursts of studio recordings inject a warm energy and lightness to the story. In one memorable scene Maude struts through a graveyard with a yellow umbrella, backed by Tea For The Tillerman.

The film’s success lies in the performance of Ruth Gordon and Bud Cort. It’s a testament to their skill and charisma that these two highly improbable characters burst from the screen with elegance and authenticity. Cort has an adorable and captivating face, both androidinal and cherubic, and conjures some joyfully unhinged expressions. Gordon powers the film, radiating charisma like a sassy sun. She brings to the role playfulness and vigour, but also a sensuality which is fascinatingly anti-stereotype.

The script is sharp and intelligent, mixing macabre physical comedy with snappy dialogue and some painfully optimistic philosophies. To off-set the wackiness, the film has an anti-war bent. Harold’s Uncle is a one armed Sergeant returned from Vietnam, pulling a drawstring to salute with his empty sleeve. To protest against this spiritual repression, Maude mentors Harold to be ‘impulsive and fanciful,’ and while some of her rants can grate, there’s some splendid exchanges.
Harold: Do you pray?
Maude: Pray? No, I communicate.
Harold: With God?
Maude: With Life.

On first viewing it’s easy to get caught up in the idiosyncratic humour and age politics. The film doesn’t shy away from this, and there’s a hilarious monologue from the priest warning Harold against ‘co-mingling with the withered flesh and flabby buttocks.’ Yet on second viewing the film reveals a deceptive emotional depth. In an easy to miss sequence, Maude uncovers a Jewish concentration camp tattoo. In this context, the pair singing If you want to sing out, sing out / If you want to be free be free passionately off-key, brought me close to tears.

Like all great films, Harold and Maude stops you in your tracks and reminds you that life is full of beauty that can’t be seen from inside a cage. Its anti-conformity theme will appeal to the misfits, while the love story is positively punk in its daring. Where the themes, humour and soundtrack have aged beautifully, the same cannot be said for the fashion.

THE CAR YARD AIR PUPPET DANCING MAN THING

The CYAPDMT goes by many names – Skydancer, Silent Salesman, Crowd Pleaser (sounds like a NAZI euphemism) and more commonly “inflatable dancing man.” They are deployed by auto dealerships to gain attention to their business and encourage foot traffic. The puppets are powered by twin fans and can inflate up to six metres tall. These balloonatics then flail and contort in a manner resembling Peter Garret doing the robot dance. The unsavoury sentinels are left to jive and jerk during business hours, sometimes emblazoned with SALE in angry red letters.

I am scared of inflatable dancing men for the same reason people are afraid of clowns and zombies. They display many human characteristics, yet fall disturbingly short of the important ones. Their bodies are clearly humanoid, yet their movements and face (or lack of one) is like something from the Twilight Zone – an alternate reality where homosapiens have only semi-evolved, caught in a speechless limbo, forced to play out their days crying for help through dance, employed by sinister used car salesman paying them in Aeros.

There is something in the tube dude’s movement that triggers my fear responses. Perhaps it is the jerky, discordant nature, similar to that of a panicked spider. The arms punch skywards, while the torso swerves dizzily from side to side, like a mentally unhinged person caught in self-rumpus. In the pastel flow of the nine to five, the inflatable man is a shock from the subconscious, an off-beat off-kilter oscillating ogre rearing up from the depths of some childhood nightmare to leer and squirm. A blind and deaf giant flickering like flames, dancing for no-one, lost within the void of itself.

The website doesn’t describe them like that. A quick perusal of Budget Inflatables will ensure you that A) “they work” and B) “We can supply this item in most colours and with any message that will fit on the front and back of the man.” It strikes me as odd. Cars aren’t the kind of thing you buy on impulse – are people really driving along when suddenly “Great Scott, what is that in the corner of my eye, why, a cavorting air ghoul! By golly, what’s that business behind it – a car yard!” In the same way supermarkets play depressing music to make you buy groceries, perhaps the agitated movements of the Silent Salesman rile you to buy a vehicle. Either that or they cause you to crash your car so you have to buy a new one.

Even if I were in a desperate hurry to score some wheels, I would clinically avoid any dealership that insisted on the cruel exploitation of cheap air puppet labour. Let us not forget that this balloonatic has replaced a perfectly able human being, heavy with sandwich board or dwelling within a large bird. Surely this is enough to catch the attention of the hapless customer, without haunting the streets with these helium demons. In the meantime, if I’m ever going to overcome my phobia, it will have to be though the therapeutic medium of dance. The best way to overcome your fear is to understand it, so next time I’m on the floor, I’ll be pulling out some Sky Dancer. Just stand, flail and sell!sell!sell!

Long before geek chic there was just geek. In high school I had a bowl cut and Napolean Dynamite wire frames with heavy glass lenses earning me the name Coke Bottles. Instead of being picked on, I was studied with awe and my ticket through school was letting the tough kids try on my specs. “Fuck they’re thick!” they’d exclaim, staggering about. “Oh man, it’s like I’m stoned!” In Grade Nine I upgraded to plastic lenses and while much lighter, I was dismayed that they’d grown even thicker. Throw in some poor posture and I was pretty much a young Professor Farnsworth from Futurama. I enjoyed three years without a skerrick of interest from the opposite sex.

Being a surf club nipper I had prescription goggles. These stuck out because of the magnification and my rivals called me Blowfly. Before that I just used to wear my glasses in the sea tied up with underpants elastic. I can remember games of football being paused while I pawed around in the mud looking for my grizzled frames. In Grade Ten I upgraded to contacts and enjoyed improved vision and handsomeness, but they brought with them a new set of teary problems. Drunken sleepovers would end with me sloshing kettle water over two bottle tops and footy games had to be called off altogether while my team crawled around on all fours. One of the pleasures of the Four Eyes United is bumping into a fellow myope and sharing such war stories.

These days trying to pick genuine bifocal folk is like Harrison Ford trying to pick the replicants in Blade Runner. Fauxhemians have gatecrashed the party, bringing an eyesore of obnoxiously oversized frames that are so fad based they don’t even bother with lenses. If only they were doing it out of empathy, like classmates who shave their heads for a cancer victim, but no, this is surely one of fashion’s most hollow attempts to cash in on a subculture who have endured years of obscurity to cultivate their own grass roots cool. Seriously hipsters – as chairman of the F.E.U. I’m sending a message:

NO TWO EYES ALLOWED!

Specs have always been part of the ‘hot librarian’ ensemble, but let us not forget they are also pieces of equipment worn by the visually impaired. How would fashion feel about getting ironic with other medical necessities. How about wearing designer orthopaedic shoes to your next warehouse party, or carrying a glow in the dark walking stick at music festivals. Braces bling? Vintage print sling? Fixed gear wheelchairs? Man, if Darwin Deez can make a brown skivvy and government issue frames cool then surely there’s no limit to the shallow appropriation of daggy doodads.

Some glasses make you look smarter, some glasses make you look like a paedophile -  The Beautiful People™ wear them for both these reasons. As a lifetime spectacles wearer, I’m offended at the idea of them being used ironically or aesthetically. When so much of my indie taste has already been commodified, must another of my ‘favourite bands’ sell-out? Listen up glassholes – you and your fashion cronies just back away from our optometric territory or feel the wrath of our cleaning spray in your face. There’s only one way to join the F.E.U. and that’s by taking an eye test. See how far you get down these letters:

F

A K

E    R    S

The theory of nostalgiabra has changed. Detective work is a much swifter affair with the advent of the pop-culture super computer. Instead of fishing for clues amongst ourselves we let The Net trawl the oceans for us. One of my obscurest memories is an Australian movie from the late 80’s called Frog Dreaming. All I remember is the title and a scene involving a mechanical monster in a swamp. After a minute on the keyboard I’d found the movie uploaded in eight parts to the ‘Tube. The most rated comment read: “Everyone has the SAME experience with this film, they all saw it around the late 80′s period, years pass and they can’t remember the title or anything else except a few brief moments. Then they eventually believe they dreamt or imagined those brief moments because nobody they talk to knows of a movie that fits the descriptions.”

It was true. Here was the modern, virtual equivalent of my Year 12 experience. For a moment I felt flush with acknowledgement – I was part of a community of fellow Gen-Y detectives, albeit online – but after clicking through to a site offering a burn of the film for thirty dollars I hit an emotional firewall. Where was the warmth? The heart. Where was the excitement of a friend putting the movie on at a party, or the vibrancy of a drunken chat with a stranger, rallying memories with high-fivin’ eyes? Like CD’s to vinyl, this experience was too clinical and efficient compared to the warmth of meandering conversations and video store scouring. The conundrum was that I didn’t really want to find the answers all at once. What kind of series would Sherlock Holmes have been if he’d solved the cases by the second page?

During high school, my favourite pastime was to head to the local second hand record store and search though the CD singles. My number one target was a copy of my favourite song Infinity by Guru Josh. I spent so much time scouring the ‘G’s’ that I’ve build up an autistic knowledge of 90’s ‘G’ bands: Garbage, Gang Starr, Ginuwine, Gin Blossoms, Gina G. After five years solid searching I never found the single. This is because it was only released on cassette and vinyl. Looking back, it didn’t matter. The rush of suspense that accompanied my police cleric flicking was worth it. These days, I would head to Ebay and locate a copy within seconds. While this would suit the time-poor me today, my teenage hunting by hand is the equivalent of kids being encouraged to ‘run around in the backyard’ instead of playing the computer.

As super-detectives, with our minds in the matrix and the answers at our fingertips, are we experiencing obscurity blues? Thanks to the Internet nothing is lost anymore, so can we take the same joy in discovering it? As the online bargain bin grows, perhaps our connection to art is becoming more depersonalised. As one of the 25, 000 Fans of 80’s claymation ‘Trapdoor’ I feel that nostalgia, like everything, has been commodified as another status symbol. It seems important to preserve my own relationship with the show, and distil the excitement from those faint technicolour memories. As a retro Poirot, perhaps I’ll take the long road, and wait until I stumble upon it on a dusty shelf. That’s StumbleUpon the old fashioned way.

December, 2011.

**12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS VIDEO NOW STREAMING. CLICK ON SANTA TO WATCH**
**A VERY BEDDY CHRISTMAS EP OUT NOW**

LT BIRTHDAYS

Happy Birthday Miley Cyrus 19 today!
Happy Birthday Merv Hughes 50 today!

WHO’S POPULAR? (likes)

EMINEM – 49,129,237
RIHANNA – 47,255,788
LADY GAGA – 45,236,643
MICHAEL JACKSON – 42,478,544
JUSTIN BIEBER – 37,724,673
BARACK OBAMA – 24,128,921
THE BEATLES – 23,202,086
PINK FLOYD – 16,015,265
JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE – 12,520,377
JESUS – 10,405,148
THE ROLLING STONES – 8,009,686
RADIOHEAD – 7,492,823
MADONNA – 6,590,259
GORILLAZ – 4,731,414
OASIS – 4,504,874
FLIGHT OF THE CONCHORDS – 1,462,756
KYLIE – 1,055,163
BECK – 946,421
BLUR – 839,170
WEIRD AL YANKOVIC – 632,673
ANGUS AND JULIA STONE – 531,364
BOARDS OF CANADA – 226,697
TIM MINCHIN – 226,460
WEEN – 162,498
JULIA GILLARD – 115,306
GRUG – 112,844
KIMBRA – 53,599
WASHINGTON – 52,160
BOB BROWN – 39,001
TONY ABBOTT – 20,309
THE BEARDS – 12,819
AUGIE MARCH – 10,444
TRIPOD – 6,814
THE BEDROOM PHILOSOPHER – 3,613
O.M.C (How Bizarre) – 2,602
PLUCKA DUCK – 120

LYRIC POLICE

From Giles Field, Melbourne.

Art vs. Science – Magic Fountain

We were never told /
that the fountain was a trophy for the kingdoms of old /
A treasure, a plaything /
A Trojan in disguise.

A Trojan in disguise? Surely not an allusion to the famous Wooden Horse of Troy? If my research is correct it was the Greeks in Virgil’s ‘The Aeneid’  who hid 30 men inside a wooden horse allowing them to storm the city of Troy. I’m sure on occasion the Trojans used to dress up in disguises and drink wine like it was going out of fashion, but I think it was the Greeks who more famously disguised themselves during that particular war.

Response from Simon Hall, Melbourne:

Yeah but Trojan has come to be a noun for something which sneaks into something by disguise, eg. Some computer viruses are known as Trojans.

DO YOU KNOW A BAD LYRIC THAT NEEDS POLICING? SEND IT TO:
laptopping at bedroomphilosopher dot com

MADE UP WORDS AND THEIR MEANINGS

From Daylan James, Melbourne.

FORANGE:
To forage for an orange in a foreign country

DO YOU HAVE A MADE UP WORD AND MEANING?

SEND IT TO: laptopping at bedroomphilosopher dot com

GET A WRIGGLE ON GOOGLET!

Phrases people have typed into Google to land on my website:

“is nuttelex bad for dogs?”
“lenny kravitz is a douche”
“cross with cassette tape wrapped around it”
“bedroom folosifer song”
“male high cut open leg gym shorts”
“socks sex (4th most popular in September – side effect of last tour name)”
“why do i love so much more when im hungover”
“retailer in australia matey bubble bath adventurers”
“can you get a bed from the op shop?”
“bill oddie mental illness 2011”
“is xoxo more intimate than xxx”
“my name is wow”

TIME IS CHEESE AND MOUSE IS HUNGRY!

Babakiueria – a criminally underappreciated 1986 short-film by the creator of Mother & Son. It should be up there with The Castle.

NEWS

• My new Christmas EP is out now! You can download it through iTunes or you can order the CD with salacious artwork from bedroomphilosopher.com.

• A new video for 12 Days Of Christmas is up on YouTube. It features a number of cameos including Dave Callan, The Suitcase Royale, Damien Lawlor (Lime Champions), Asher Treleaven, Simone Page Jones, Will Hindmarsh (Go-Go Sapien) & Nature Boy Hazel (The Awkwardstra.)

• I’m supporting the Dresden Dolls on a national tour in January. Dates below.

• I’m not the only one doing 12 Days. It was also good enough for Bonds with Jack Ladder.

• I recently gave tell-all interviews to ABC National and Speaker TV.

• If current commercial fishing practices continue, the numbers of predators such as sharks and tuna will collapse as soon as 2050.

• I wrote a column about sexuality in Indie music for Mess & Noise.

A GIGGLE OF GIGS

A VERY BEDDY CHRISTMAS RESIDENCY
w/ The Awkwardstra.

Featuring a different support choir each week and the world premiere of Jazz Santa.
Tuesdays in December at Northcote Social Club.

Dec 6 w/ RMIT Occasional Chorale
Dec 13 w/ Choir Straits
Dec 20 w/ Monash University Chorale

$20 (door) / $15 (pre-sale). Doors 7:30. Choir: 8. BP: 9
Bookings.

SUPPORTING THE DRESDEN DOLLS

Jan 5: Brisbane: The Tivoli
Jan 7: Sydney: The Enmore
Jan 8: Melbourne: The Forum (w/ The Awkwardstra)
Jan 11: Adelaide: The Gov
Jan 12: Perth: The Astor

STORYTIME

In October I spent three weeks in New York for the second year in a row. Here’s what I found.

OCCUPY WALL ST

A well organised shanty town, complete with media office, library and kitchen, ran to a jobs roster ensuring that cooking, cleaning and media duties were maintained. A fierce drum circle kept time with whatever they had available – drumkit, bongos and the steel rim of rubbish bins. There were plenty of placards, my favourite being: “Dear Republicans, Obama is not a brown-skinned anti-war socialist who gives away free healthcare. You’re thinking of Jesus.” I was taken with the number of art instillations. Rough and ready sculptures of found objects with signs encouraging you to “add your own art.” A poster of two handprints asked strangers to place their hands and “remove when no longer strangers.” It was like being let inside the house of a friendly cult leader. Therein lies the true brilliance of the Occupy movement. It is simultaneously a political organisation and a freewheeling, open-air house party of ideas. It’s about positivity, caring for your fellow man, and reprimanding the greedy in lieu of no one else. When I saw a naked man in a barrel holding a Macbook, I realised how incredible this really was. It wasn’t trying to push politics onto me, or bug me for cash, it was just a bunch of humans coming together to workshop a playful revolution. John Lennon would have gone bananas.

Some have said New York isn’t the same place post 9-11. You can sense the depression in the air – the grim tension of an increasingly enveloped police state (I’ve felt it in Melbourne.) Occupy was the shot of good-will and adrenalin the city needed – that the world needs. The capitalist strongmen watched the circus from the side, their cartoon eyes disembodied in the void. Hot dog vans surrounded the perimeter while bling-swingin’ movie-villains strutted past, sucking on cigars. Jay-Z landed in hot water for marketing “Occupy the world” t-shirts. What a fabulously inappropriate mutation of the original sentiment. You can’t trademark ideas. Jay-Z is worth 350 million. The nucleus of greed burns intense. Bitter like a coffee bean. Clouding rainbows.

A law had been passed banning the use of megaphones. The Occupy gang found an ingenious solution. They broadcast their messages using People Power. The leader would speak the message to a large group, one line at a time. They would repeat the message as one:
Please join us
PLEASE JOIN US!
Down at the picket line
DOWN AT THE PICKET LINE!
We have buses waiting
WE HAVE BUSES WAITING!

It should have been creepy, but it was exciting. Like school fire drill day crossed with Hair.
To have a revolution all you need to do is do it.

* * *

BAD YOGA

Someone once asked me “is a good poo better than bad sex?” I now ask “is bad yoga worse than a bad poo?” I’ve been doing yoga for two years. It’s a main source of vitamins for my soul. Think high school P.E. stretching made intelligent, with a bit of spirituality thrown in. I went to several classes in NY and found that many of the teachers talked too much and most didn’t hold the poses for long enough. The worst culprit was an over-energised sports jock chick who wandered around the room without demonstrating any of the moves and, most repugnantly, put on background music. The central theme of yoga is concentrating and being in synch with yourself. Music of any kind rips me out of the moment like a fish from the sea. It wasn’t even hippie instrumental but contemporary Indie-folk like Iron & Wine. Lyrics! I was downward dogging when Joanna Newsom came on. Her pregnant cat serenade and medieval romps leave me anxious at the best of times. While I stretched my thighs and calves, I could not stretch my imagination to include a world where music during yoga is anything but a monumental faux-pas of the most personal kind. Someone had tried to hang their coat on a notch in my spine. At the end of the class, during the lie down, on comes ‘Hurt’ by Johnny Cash. Only the saddest song of all time. As I lay there, internally recovering, allowing my sediments to settle, trying to find some real-estate in harmony, I became acutely aware of how dutifully I was failing to ignore the sonic pungency of this out of context tune. It was written by a person in great lament, reflecting on how much pain he had caused those around him, and sung by a heavy-hearted balladeer only months from his death.

It’d be like your counsellor playing ‘Party in the USA.’

* * *

I’M GOING DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN TO JEWTOWN

In New York there is a large Jewish community. Many of them are Hasidic Jews. They are very orthodox and stand out in their traditional dress. The men wear black coats and hats and sport biblical beards with thick ringlets in their hair. I was staying near a Jewish neighbourhood in Park Slope, Brooklyn. On a number of occasions I witnessed huge groups of identically dressed men gather to celebrate an event. I found them fascinating. They were cool and intimidating, like rock stars, yet also slightly menacing like principals or Heisenberg in Breaking Bad.

My girl and I were in a deli looking for peanut butter when a Hasidic Jewish elder pulled us up.
“You don’t look like you’re from around here!” He was friendly but firm, his face an explosion of hair and decades. He peered at us with deep, blunt eyes.
“Ah, we believe in heaven and eternal life, but what do we know? Hollywood knows best. Marriage is between a man and a woman. We’ve been around for thousands of years, but what do we know? We know nothing. The Germans tried to wipe us out, now here we are, celebrating. But I’m crazy, right. I’m the crazy one.” He ranted at us for a few minutes in a cryptically self-aware, playfully bitter, self-flagellating yet ominously preachy display. A teenager came up the aisle, pushing a trolley. He expected the old man to move.
“You should go up and round the other aisle. If your mother had raised you right you wouldn’t try and squeeze past.”
The teenager withered.
“I’ve been on since this morning.”

The borough of Williamsburg is a tragically hilarious culture clash of ultra-conservative Jews and hedonistic hipsters. The Jews nail signs to trees in Hebrew that translate: “Precious Jewish Daughter: Please move to the side when a man approaches!” They recently had a bike lane removed as they were sick of young girls riding their bikes in skirts through Jewish neighbourhoods. They painted over the lanes themselves. Mayor Bloomberg is relatively powerless to step in as he needs the votes. Under Jewish tradition, they are not allowed to operate electrical devices on Fridays (Shabbat.) It is not uncommon to be asked to push their elevator button for them. A friend retold a story where she was approached by a young man asking if she could come to his house and do “a few jobs.”

There are strong customs for Hasidic women as well. Once married, they must shave off their hair and wear a wig. From then on their sole purpose is to bear and raise children. On the street I passed world-weary girls with long, plain skirts and toddlers in tow. On my flight over, a Hasidic couple had eight children with them. During my three weeks, I was approached four times by young men in black hats and asked, in the same tone you ask someone for the time:
“Excuse me, are you Jewish?”
Each time I wanted to hold my hand out flat and tip it back and forth.
“I’m Jew-ish.”

* * *

GOD BLESS AMERICA (AND OTHERS IF HE HAS TIME)

After a week, I started getting cross at New York. It was triggered by an advertisement with a bearded hipster saying “We have the best arts scene in the universe.”
“Get over yourselves.” I thought. A tension was growing within me, like a young child jealous of their older, tougher, artier, vastly more popular sibling. I passed down another garbage bag lined street, observing that every bus, every subway car, every third shopfront or household bore the American flag. A deli sign boasted “best burgers in new York (therefore the world).” The hype machine was clashing badly with my tall-poppy syndrome. Here I was in the centre of the world’s most puffed up poppy, preening its red, white and blue petals in my face. My American Apparel bag had the names of thirty cities from around the world, excluding Australia. The Village Voice had a food issue suggesting you could “Taste the world via NY.” Inside, they listed the best restaurants from each country, including New Zealand. Australia did not feature. My fuse ignited when our housemate remarked that she thought Cate Blanchett was English.

Australia knows too much about America, but it doesn’t know anything about us. (Paul Hogan and Croc Hunter if you’re lucky.) Meanwhile, the Valley twang filters into our accents, Yankee chains inject our kids with fat, while shows like The Office are remade for US audiences. (Many Americans didn’t like David Brent because he was too mean.)

Foreign creativity being airbrushed to suit American aesthetics is cultural manslaughter. My cardboard sign frustrations are trampled in a subway foot-storm; ego-bruises soaking in a cold-sauce of disempowerment. An inflated, blimpish beast, furiously devouring its own lab-farmed content, deaf to ideas that aren’t bellowed in its over-stated dialect.

Henry Wagons recently spoke about his obsession with America. “It’s the best and the worst the world has to offer, living side by side.” He spoke of anomalies such as bacon infused whiskey and their “so bad it’s good” redeemability. It’s this high-brow / low-brow clash, powered by the undiluted extroversion of a self-celebrating society that makes the place a petri dish of entertainment. I first heard New York described as “a movie scene on every corner.” I’d cruise past a chicken shop to see an old African-American step out, bellowing with a sing-song of disagreeance, waving his arms like the world had no mirrors.

I remembered how at school the cool kids are always the most insecure. It’s lonely at the top, but also busy. You’ve got to constantly pump yourself up, while watching out for haters. New York has to keep up appearances. It needs to run campaigns saying it’s the best in the universe like Dirk Diggler needs to psych himself in the mirror before a shoot. It’s the precise mathematical opposite of Australia; the houseproud loner trying to find more to talk about than mining and sport. American comedian Colin Quinn summed us up by saying “Whenever there’s a war, Australia’s right behind us. We’re like ‘Australia, yeah, I was going to call you – (do I even have their number?)’” If I were employed to write an overseas ad campaign it would be something like ‘Australia – Google it.” Or, “Australia – so bad it’s good.” Or, “The other Austria.” Or, “Australia, it’s next to New Zealand, (where Flight Of The Conchords are from.)” I think it would work. Assuming everyone got the irony.

Towards the end of the three weeks my rage subsided. I visited the Jim Henson exhibition in Queens. As I lay my eyes into the rich chocolate felt of Ralph, my heart melted in gratitude for those that created my colourful introduction to art. Bert and Ernie delivered my first punchlines. Kermit’s Rainbow Connection was my first sad song. Cookie Monster had the seeds of madness oscillating in his eyes. I watched Jim Henson’s experimental short filmTimepiece and was reminded of his intellect and originality of vision, and also of his wild, wonderful heart.

* * *

RAT MAN

On the subway we encountered a plucky looking dealer-type. He had a trolley with two white postal tubs with holes cut in them. A red-eyed albino mouse poked its nose through. Sensing the stares, the guy went on the offensive, explaining that he bred rats for the FDA (Food and drug administration.) A mouse wriggled its head and shoulders through a hole and scrambled out. I clutched my seat. The woman sitting opposite wasn’t phased. She picked up the mouse and slipped it back into its box. I secretly hoped one of the boxes would upend. The carnage that would ensue.

Sensing judgement from the pallid onlookers, the guy starting dishing out the claims.
“I make more money that you make in one week.”
“How much you got in your pocket? I’ll triple that s$%t.”
His partner was none too happy with the expression on one woman’s face and screamed “HUSSY!”
“Ssssh,” said the guy.
“I’m sorry, I had to say that.”
His parting words were:
“I live in a Condo. That’s how much money me and my rats make.”

(HERE IS A VIDEO OF RAT MAN.)

* * *

WHY WOULD YOU NEED TO TAKE THE LID FROM MY WATER (?x100)

I saw Weird Al Yankovic at the Beacon Theatre. It was good seeing Smells Like Nirvana live. It was so accurately represented that I blurred my eyes and pretended I was watching Kurt Cobain. There were confetti cannons and thirteen costume changes, including the fat suit from Fat. Amish Paradise was a highlight.
In the foyer I bought a bottle of Dasani water “enhanced with minerals for added flavor.” The girl handed it to me sans lid.
“Can I have the lid?”
She placed a plastic cup over the bottle.
“That’s the best I can do.”
I left the cup and walked away.
“Why?” I thought. “Why? Why? Why?”
WHY WHY WHY
WHY does the Beacon Theatre need to keep the lid to a water bottle? I understand why venues do it to alcohol – it stops people carrying the alcohol out. The liquor licence doesn’t allow it. But why the restrictions on water? WHY? oh WHY? I’ll never understand. I’ve thought about it long and hard. I’m more likely to spill the water on your precious carpet now. WHY not just give me the lid? I paid $4 for that bottle. WHY would you treat me like that? I’m an adult. WHY do you need to keep the lid?? My lid!! WHY? Oh WHY would that ever be a policy?

I tell you what – I’ll boil it all down to a pass / fail grading system. Stupendously pedantic power tripping venue protocols such as this will count for 50% of the exam. Oh boy my friend, how you will FAIL! Yes you will FAIL so hard your big failure head will make you fall down and you’ll smack your FAIL brain on the grimy FAIL floor! I will tear your page out of the lonely planet guide in my mind and mail it to my personal demons to incinerate on their wickedly cylindrical cigars, the flames splitting into sixties on hexagonal mirrorballs. Ashes like black snow. The torn stockings of your depleted fairies. You lid keeping FAILTOWN or a FAILSVILLE FAILBLOG EPIC FAILING DR FAIL AND THE ALL FAIL ALLBLAHS you.

* * *

BLACK KNIGHT

An African-American kid was chilling by the subway gates in Atlantic Avenue. My girl slid her card along the slot. It said DENIED. Out of credit.
“Just jump,” said the kid.
“But the guy’s in the booth. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“You’re not a black man. You’ll be okay.”
I gave her my ticket and went off to get my own. All the while the kid enthusiastically offered “just jump, you’re white, you’ll get away with it,” as if letting me in on a big secret.
I passed through the gates self consciously.
My girl had gone up ahead, but I couldn’t see her.
“She’s over there man,” said the kid, still at his post.
“No, over that way.”
I saw the newsagent she was in.
“Thanks man,” I said, nervous to face him. He was so calm and chipper. I was so bumbly. The black knight of Atlantic Avenue. The streetwise sage, offering up advice on his own dime. Connecting the nerds and the squares and the bohemes. Picking up the pale, squeaky pups and placing them back on their grids.

I liked that kid.

THE END