June 20th
I enrolled in a 6-week voiceover course through The Victorian College of the Arts, part of Melbourne University. Louise, our instructor was great and demanded a lot of us -- including buckets of homework.
The first portion of the course focused on commercial work, not my strongstuit, a fact exacerbated by my total lack of interest in it. Oh sure, some of them were fun, but feedback like "make your voice warmer" left me utterly confounded. Louise was equally perplexed: on my final short commercial read, she said when I'm speaking regularly or telling a story, my voice has the exact "ping" needed for commercial work, but as soon as I read an ad, it disappears. We both gave a "that sucks" shoulder shrug and I sat down.
The following week, we were onto longer reads. Hello. Now we're talking. The dark horse of the class, I came out of nowhere (even with a nasty head cold).
Endurance and maintaining energy levels are what make longer reads difficult, apparently. But talking a lot isn't much of a problem for me. Plus, I have some cheats:
1) I'm quite adept at cold/sight reads and,
2) my family has a great tradition of reading aloud.
The latter goes beyond typical storytime: in my family, whenever there's an article of interest, it will invariably be read aloud in lieu of passing it to the other party. Even if someone is beside me and reading over my shoulder, I will nonetheless read the material to them.
The next week, children's books and characterization. An impressive performance with "Too Loud Lily" -- of course, how can you go wrong with talking hippos?
Pete, however, brought the house down with "Are You My Mother?" I had tried to find a copy of it at the library, but couldn't recall the author [Eastman, again! You wiley thing...] Thankfully, I didn't get it because Pete was amazing. Before he started, he explained he felt the narration needed an English accent. But try as he might practicing at home, his Patrick Stewart sounded more like Bowie. So he went with it.
[David Bowie, if you're following this blog, pleeeaazzzze start recording children's stories; it would be a gift to humanity!]
Bowie as narrator and the Baby Bird in shrill cockney (sounding like Terry Jones of Monty Python when he portrays a woman) had me doubled over, tears streaming down my face. At one point, I think I actually fell off my chair.
But the final week was all mine: the short story.
And in this instance, I cannot claim much of the credit. Sure, I could have picked Alice Munro, but I went for the ultimate cheat: David Sedaris.
Louise and my fellow classmates were shocked and in awe of what they presumed were my skills as a voiceover artist. But no, it was Sedaris. How convenient that such a genius should write in my voice! Because despite the fact that I am not a middle-aged gay man -- nor am I remotely as witty, skilled, observant, incisive, or generally as brilliant -- my voice (in terms of writing) sounds like his.
At least to my ear (isn't that yet another quality of greatness in a writer?).
No, friends: I am not David Sedaris. But man, can I read his shit aloud to an audience!
[Further examples include an impromptu performance for my parents at the Moncton airport and a couple editions of Barkly Bedtime Stories with my housemates.]
***
The idea of "cheats" in the attainment of success.
Some times their use is intentional, like the selection of Sedaris for the voiceover finale. A couple years ago, I choreographed a large group piece, Wake, on the DancEast Young Company. I can confidently say it's one of the best things I've created to date. However, in terms of eliciting an emotional response from the audience, the use of two tracks by Sigur Ros for the last part of the piece was a knowing cheat.
Other times, the cheats can't be helped: I couldn't shake the feeling that the perfect scores I achieved on the map tests in my university history course were undeserved due to the advantage gifted to me by my photographic memory. Same with the 100% I finished my anatomy course with the following year: it wasn't me, it was my freakish memory.
In all cases where cheats have been used, praise feels almost dirty.
***
I clearly remember one particular music class in elementary school, grade 4 or 5. Mrs. Kay Doucette said she would buy a Popsicle for whoever could correctly name the song represented by the music notes on the the board.
I knew right away: Frère Jacques. After all, I had been studying piano with the nuns for a few years and by this point was also taking lessons in sight reading, dictation, and Solfège. I waited, hoping someone else would figure it out, but knowing it was unlikely: we had barely touched on reading music in our weekly hour-long class.
I looked over at Jonathan Doucette. Surely, the music teacher's son would know this!
"Anyone...?"
I put up my hand and answered.
As we walked through the gym back to our classroom on the other side of the school, I thanked Mrs. Doucette, but said I couldn't accept the prize: it wasn't fair.
"Of course it's fair. I said I'd buy a Popsicle for whoever could tell me the song and you did."
"But none of the other kids take music outside of school!"
"Aleza," she said in a tone that meant the argument was closed for debate, "don't look a gift horse in the mouth."
Even at the time, I recall thinking that was a weird expression to say to a kid.
***
Recently, Tisi and I choreographed a duet on stairs to Alice by Pogo. The track is so cool and entrancing, I secretly felt it's a bit of a cheat. However, we neglected to bring the CD when we went to show the people putting the performance together. After explaining the oversight, we did the piece in silence. And they loved it.
I stopped myself short of saying how much more they'll like it with the music.
No. It is a good piece, all on it's own.
Maybe after all these years, it's time to accept the damn Popscicle already.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
How Else to Spend a Friday?
July 10th
Leaning against the wall on Swanston and listening to the boys busk, I cast an eye out for Tisi.
Earlier at work, I had been hunting for some excitement and adventure for later, but from what I could gather, there wasn't much happening. Jezza sent a message that he and Michael were playing in the city should the weather hold out; the plan was to have a drink after. Shortly after, a message from Tisi asking about the night's activities. Clearly, I wasn't the only one itching for fun.
Tisi comes bounding up, big smile.
"The guys just got a circus-mobile to go to the desert. Wanna come for some lappies?"
[Lappies is bogan-speak for cruising around the city.]
Tisi is a circus performer, specializing in aerial acts. Over a month ago, she was offered a phenomenal gig: a cultural exchange with a group of circus performers involving a 3-week residency in an indigenous community in central Australia. The group would be driving there and back, an epic journey in itself.
When she initially found out, we flirted with the possibility of me flying out to join in for the return trip and various permutations of that general concept. But more than anything serious, it was far-fetched scheming over morning tea, attempted consolation for our imminent separation.
***
"There they are!"
The guys pull up in an old-style ambulance covered with ladders, a sparkly orange-red paint job, purchased as-is for a couple thousand dollars. I hop into the front seat beside Mort, while Tim and Tisi are in the back, talking through how to outfit it to accommodate everyone. I've met Tim before -- a highly animated, exuberant acrobat of many years -- but never Mort, who's coordinating the project. Neatly trimmed grey beard, dark eyes, straw fedora, oversized peach sweater, and wearing a string of malas around his neck, he has the air of a distinguished former hippie. [Kate recently asked me how circus folk differ from hippies. My conclusion: they're very similar, but circus people don't smell. Or more aptly, they don't smell like hippies.]
A few laps through the main streets of Melbourne, then it's over to the Circus Oz tent. The evening's performance will have just finished and the guys want to catch up with everyone for the post-show schmooze & mingle. Mort takes the ambulance onto the festival grounds, just able to squeeze through the posts that are no doubt in place to prevent vehicle entry and parks beneath the large Ferris wheel. Tisi, ever the diplomat, saunters over to the guys manning the ride and, subtly implying direct affiliation with Circus Oz, asks if it's OK to leave the car there.
"No skin off our nose, luv."
***
Inside the tent, Tisi tracks down someone she knows and succeeds in getting us wine at the performers' significantly discounted rate.
After a little mingling and a little wine, Tisi turns to Mort, "You know, Ali is a fantastic contemporary dancer and experienced performer. She should really come with us to the desert."
"That's right! I am. I... I should!"
Mort gives me a hard look, nodding slightly. "Hmm..."
That was all the encouragement needed. Tisi and I launch into an exhaustive list of every potentially useful skill and experience in my repertoire, including fluency in French and an ability to ride horses. Back and forth we go, an overwhelming barrage of she-can-do-this and I've-done-that-before.
Pause.
Another hard look.
"Can you play the accordion?"
"No. No yet. But I can learn."
Pause.
"You should learn the accordion for your act."
"My old housemate had two and this one time, he had friends over for a jam and 'cause I couldn't play anything other than piano, but there wasn't a piano, he gave me the accordion 'cause it has keys, so I have played one before, but not very well. It's loud, you know? And there's this amazing dancer in Toronto that I'm friends with and she has this accordion band called Hell's Bellows. Isn't that a great name?!" Please please please.
"So. What d'ya think, Mort?" asks Tisi, one hand on her hip, plastic glass of red wine in the other.
Mort nods. "I'll have to talk to Tim and there's really no money in the budget, but yes. Yes, I think so."
***
Tisi is describing the circus-mobile to Rocky, aerialist extraordinaire.
Rocky: "Why does it have ladders?"
Mort: "To go up. Even I know that."
Somehow, we manage to be among the last ones there, shuffling out with the other stragglers.
On the way to the car, Tim muses contentedly on the evening's events. "I got numerous hugs off Ellie tonight. That was cool."
***
Before noon the following day, Tisi has located an accordion (melodian, for accuracy's sake). The day after, she says it seems that Mort is serious about taking me. He likes my energy, is amused by how Tisi and I play off each other, and believes the appearance of the accordion is a sign. Even if it's a melodian.
A week later, talking to Mort on the phone, he tells me that if I cause any trouble, any cause for concern, he will kill me. "I'm not even kidding: any trouble, I will strangle you and leave you on the side of the road. Got it?"
The next day, Tisi is informed that her beloved -- me -- is in.
***
I will be going to Warburton, one of the remotest indigenous communities in Australia. A 10-hour drive from Alice Springs, in Western Australia near the borders of South Australia and the Northern Territory, this is where the last of the tribal Aboriginals lived. In the 1930's, when 3 white men walked out of the desert and into this community, they were the first white people ever seen in Warburton.
I'm running away with the circus to the desert.
I can't wait.
Leaning against the wall on Swanston and listening to the boys busk, I cast an eye out for Tisi.
Earlier at work, I had been hunting for some excitement and adventure for later, but from what I could gather, there wasn't much happening. Jezza sent a message that he and Michael were playing in the city should the weather hold out; the plan was to have a drink after. Shortly after, a message from Tisi asking about the night's activities. Clearly, I wasn't the only one itching for fun.
Tisi comes bounding up, big smile.
"The guys just got a circus-mobile to go to the desert. Wanna come for some lappies?"
[Lappies is bogan-speak for cruising around the city.]
Tisi is a circus performer, specializing in aerial acts. Over a month ago, she was offered a phenomenal gig: a cultural exchange with a group of circus performers involving a 3-week residency in an indigenous community in central Australia. The group would be driving there and back, an epic journey in itself.
When she initially found out, we flirted with the possibility of me flying out to join in for the return trip and various permutations of that general concept. But more than anything serious, it was far-fetched scheming over morning tea, attempted consolation for our imminent separation.
***
"There they are!"
The guys pull up in an old-style ambulance covered with ladders, a sparkly orange-red paint job, purchased as-is for a couple thousand dollars. I hop into the front seat beside Mort, while Tim and Tisi are in the back, talking through how to outfit it to accommodate everyone. I've met Tim before -- a highly animated, exuberant acrobat of many years -- but never Mort, who's coordinating the project. Neatly trimmed grey beard, dark eyes, straw fedora, oversized peach sweater, and wearing a string of malas around his neck, he has the air of a distinguished former hippie. [Kate recently asked me how circus folk differ from hippies. My conclusion: they're very similar, but circus people don't smell. Or more aptly, they don't smell like hippies.]
A few laps through the main streets of Melbourne, then it's over to the Circus Oz tent. The evening's performance will have just finished and the guys want to catch up with everyone for the post-show schmooze & mingle. Mort takes the ambulance onto the festival grounds, just able to squeeze through the posts that are no doubt in place to prevent vehicle entry and parks beneath the large Ferris wheel. Tisi, ever the diplomat, saunters over to the guys manning the ride and, subtly implying direct affiliation with Circus Oz, asks if it's OK to leave the car there.
"No skin off our nose, luv."
***
Inside the tent, Tisi tracks down someone she knows and succeeds in getting us wine at the performers' significantly discounted rate.
After a little mingling and a little wine, Tisi turns to Mort, "You know, Ali is a fantastic contemporary dancer and experienced performer. She should really come with us to the desert."
"That's right! I am. I... I should!"
Mort gives me a hard look, nodding slightly. "Hmm..."
That was all the encouragement needed. Tisi and I launch into an exhaustive list of every potentially useful skill and experience in my repertoire, including fluency in French and an ability to ride horses. Back and forth we go, an overwhelming barrage of she-can-do-this and I've-done-that-before.
Pause.
Another hard look.
"Can you play the accordion?"
"No. No yet. But I can learn."
Pause.
"You should learn the accordion for your act."
"My old housemate had two and this one time, he had friends over for a jam and 'cause I couldn't play anything other than piano, but there wasn't a piano, he gave me the accordion 'cause it has keys, so I have played one before, but not very well. It's loud, you know? And there's this amazing dancer in Toronto that I'm friends with and she has this accordion band called Hell's Bellows. Isn't that a great name?!" Please please please.
"So. What d'ya think, Mort?" asks Tisi, one hand on her hip, plastic glass of red wine in the other.
Mort nods. "I'll have to talk to Tim and there's really no money in the budget, but yes. Yes, I think so."
***
Tisi is describing the circus-mobile to Rocky, aerialist extraordinaire.
Rocky: "Why does it have ladders?"
Mort: "To go up. Even I know that."
Somehow, we manage to be among the last ones there, shuffling out with the other stragglers.
On the way to the car, Tim muses contentedly on the evening's events. "I got numerous hugs off Ellie tonight. That was cool."
***
Before noon the following day, Tisi has located an accordion (melodian, for accuracy's sake). The day after, she says it seems that Mort is serious about taking me. He likes my energy, is amused by how Tisi and I play off each other, and believes the appearance of the accordion is a sign. Even if it's a melodian.
A week later, talking to Mort on the phone, he tells me that if I cause any trouble, any cause for concern, he will kill me. "I'm not even kidding: any trouble, I will strangle you and leave you on the side of the road. Got it?"
The next day, Tisi is informed that her beloved -- me -- is in.
***
I will be going to Warburton, one of the remotest indigenous communities in Australia. A 10-hour drive from Alice Springs, in Western Australia near the borders of South Australia and the Northern Territory, this is where the last of the tribal Aboriginals lived. In the 1930's, when 3 white men walked out of the desert and into this community, they were the first white people ever seen in Warburton.
I'm running away with the circus to the desert.
I can't wait.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Multiple Choice
July 19th
Please complete this statement by selecting one of the following options.
Aleza Elan Gratian is:
a) teaching herself how to play the accordion.
b) working at The Royal Queensland Show [or Ekka, which is Aussie-speak for Exhibition].
c) running away with the circus to the desert of Central Australia for a residency in an indigenous community.
d) All of the above.
For those of you who selected d), you are correct.
For those of you who didn't, you know better than that, don't you.
Please complete this statement by selecting one of the following options.
Aleza Elan Gratian is:
a) teaching herself how to play the accordion.
b) working at The Royal Queensland Show [or Ekka, which is Aussie-speak for Exhibition].
c) running away with the circus to the desert of Central Australia for a residency in an indigenous community.
d) All of the above.
For those of you who selected d), you are correct.
For those of you who didn't, you know better than that, don't you.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Gothic Wear
July 14th
The text reads:
"Who's it from?"
"I... don't really know."
To be fair, I have a hunch. But the name came up as "bendekatov," which is not a name in my phone. Stranger still, the message can't be directly replied to and the number has an 85 country code.
I send a "Definitely, but who is this?" response and chalk it up to a wrong number when it goes unanswered.
The following morning, a call from Ben (who I met in The Play) requesting my assistance with measurements.
He had sent the text using Skype because he's out of phone credit.
***
Ben is from London, specifically Elephant & Castle, although he was born in a van in a desert in Israel. He looks younger than someone in his late-30s, with an impish glint in his eyes. Russian-Israeli, he has that compact stature prevalent in people who've trained extensively in martial arts.
I have no idea what he does. And I've asked. I do know: he's studying theology; trying to run some Qi Gong/Tai Chi/Kung Fu classes; lived in Byron doing the surfer-beach bum thing; was adept at coaching me on diction and accents; and that he generally cracks me up.
Half the time, I believe his overtly mysterious behaviour is all an act and he's actually an accountant.
***
We're on the floor of his room, tracing and cutting out templates for the armor. He’s been getting into the Gothic scene [“And I have to say, it’s not a very big scene here, Ah-Lee.”] and has been improvising costumes/outfits/whatever because he can’t afford to go all out. The project has come out of necessity: “I have no money: how else am I supposed to get the chicks?!”
Ben has done a little metal work in the past – of course he has – and has enlisted the help of a seamstress, a metalwork artist, and apparently, me. I look sceptically at the tiny pixellated photo he’s using as a model: frankly, I don’t see how it’s going to work.
“How can it not work?” he asks upon noticing my telling expression.
The first pectoral piece is measured, cut out, re-sized, altered, and then once satisfactory, thrown into what looks like a laundry hamper.
“Important things go in the bin,” he says without looking up from his work.
“Ah yes, The Bin of Importance.”
Upon making suggestions for the belly piece, I’m encouraged to “Run with it, Ah-Lee.” Ben often adds in the name of the person he’s speaking to, even when there’s no one else around. And Ali comes out a pleasing Ah-Lee in his accent.
“What about the shoulder plates?”
“Not gonna have them.”
“Well, I think it needs them...”
Nearly complete and with the appearance of success, he states: “I can do everything, too,” almost more to himself than to me.
I chuckle a little.
“It’s true,” he adds, with the utmost sincerity.
“Thanks, Ah-Lee – I knew you could help.”
As I ponder what specifically about me could have given him that confidence, “... maybe I’ll start my own line...”
***
Ben has decided to accompany me to the library. Behind me on the bike path, he rings his bell.
“That’s a fine bell.”
“Ye, I found it.”
Ding ding ding
“I like bells on things. That’s why I like churches, I think.”
Ding ding ding-ding ding
***
Ben is telling me about the Asian gangster at the Brunswick Pools who was grilling him about the details and meaning of his very ornate tattoo, a full sleeve that extends onto his chest and back on the left side. The gangster was trying to trip him up, but Ben had designed it himself and knows the symbolism behind each element.
“Knowing the full story,” he tell me, “is good for the head. Martial arts, religion: I like to have my fucking bases covered, Ah-Lee.”
I nod as we ride side by side down the sunny, leaf-strewn street.
I have no idea what he’s talking about.
***
“Maybe I will add shoulder plates.”
“Good, it’ll make you look broader.”
“I don’t want to look too broad.”
“Yes. Yes, you do – that’s the whole point.”
***
All morning, I’ve been excitedly telling Ben about my potential upcoming adventures. He’s reasonably puzzled when he notices I’m leaving the library with A Girl’s Guide to Surfing.
“You’re going surfing in the desert?”
And in that instant, it hits me: I’m as much of a enigma to him as he is to me.
Awesome.
***
A week later, my assistance is requested to finish up the shoulder plates.
“Do you want some juice?”
“What kind?”
“Spinach and coconut.”
“Yes.”
“It’s the closest thing to human blood in the vegetable kingdom.”
“...”
“Check it out on the Internet! I mean, you won’t find the exact proportions, but... it’s the vitamins, and the coconut is similar to plasma...”
My phone rings.
“Hey Mum! Yeah, just over at my friend’s place. He’s making spinach-and-coconut juice. Yes. It’s apparently the closest thing in the vegetable kingdom to human blood... No, he’s not Australian.”
Ben shouts over the juicer: “We’re vegan vampires!!”
My poor mother.
***
Ben has been battling some visa issues. Finally, a few more background details: his residency is sponsored by the Church of England.
“The Church thinks I’m sent from God – how funny is that?! I’m pretty good with the legal stuff. Think it’s the Jew in me. Man, would Popeye be proud of us,” as I'm handed a tall glass of thick green juice. “I’ve had to hack away at everything I get. No one looks at me and says, ‘Here’s a cool guy.’”
“Mmm...”
“Mind you, it’s different for chicks.”
“What?”
“The game of life.”
“Oh.”
“I worry about you a bit.... But you’ll be fine. Your boat will come in. Or at very least, run aground at some point. Yes, Ah-Lee. You are an interesting character.”
Considering the source, a high compliment, indeed.
The text reads:
Might you be able to give me a hang fitting the plates to an armoured t-shirt that I am making?
"Who's it from?"
"I... don't really know."
To be fair, I have a hunch. But the name came up as "bendekatov," which is not a name in my phone. Stranger still, the message can't be directly replied to and the number has an 85 country code.
I send a "Definitely, but who is this?" response and chalk it up to a wrong number when it goes unanswered.
The following morning, a call from Ben (who I met in The Play) requesting my assistance with measurements.
He had sent the text using Skype because he's out of phone credit.
***
Ben is from London, specifically Elephant & Castle, although he was born in a van in a desert in Israel. He looks younger than someone in his late-30s, with an impish glint in his eyes. Russian-Israeli, he has that compact stature prevalent in people who've trained extensively in martial arts.
I have no idea what he does. And I've asked. I do know: he's studying theology; trying to run some Qi Gong/Tai Chi/Kung Fu classes; lived in Byron doing the surfer-beach bum thing; was adept at coaching me on diction and accents; and that he generally cracks me up.
Half the time, I believe his overtly mysterious behaviour is all an act and he's actually an accountant.
***
We're on the floor of his room, tracing and cutting out templates for the armor. He’s been getting into the Gothic scene [“And I have to say, it’s not a very big scene here, Ah-Lee.”] and has been improvising costumes/outfits/whatever because he can’t afford to go all out. The project has come out of necessity: “I have no money: how else am I supposed to get the chicks?!”
Ben has done a little metal work in the past – of course he has – and has enlisted the help of a seamstress, a metalwork artist, and apparently, me. I look sceptically at the tiny pixellated photo he’s using as a model: frankly, I don’t see how it’s going to work.
“How can it not work?” he asks upon noticing my telling expression.
The first pectoral piece is measured, cut out, re-sized, altered, and then once satisfactory, thrown into what looks like a laundry hamper.
“Important things go in the bin,” he says without looking up from his work.
“Ah yes, The Bin of Importance.”
Upon making suggestions for the belly piece, I’m encouraged to “Run with it, Ah-Lee.” Ben often adds in the name of the person he’s speaking to, even when there’s no one else around. And Ali comes out a pleasing Ah-Lee in his accent.
“What about the shoulder plates?”
“Not gonna have them.”
“Well, I think it needs them...”
Nearly complete and with the appearance of success, he states: “I can do everything, too,” almost more to himself than to me.
I chuckle a little.
“It’s true,” he adds, with the utmost sincerity.
“Thanks, Ah-Lee – I knew you could help.”
As I ponder what specifically about me could have given him that confidence, “... maybe I’ll start my own line...”
***
Ben has decided to accompany me to the library. Behind me on the bike path, he rings his bell.
“That’s a fine bell.”
“Ye, I found it.”
Ding ding ding
“I like bells on things. That’s why I like churches, I think.”
Ding ding ding-ding ding
***
Ben is telling me about the Asian gangster at the Brunswick Pools who was grilling him about the details and meaning of his very ornate tattoo, a full sleeve that extends onto his chest and back on the left side. The gangster was trying to trip him up, but Ben had designed it himself and knows the symbolism behind each element.
“Knowing the full story,” he tell me, “is good for the head. Martial arts, religion: I like to have my fucking bases covered, Ah-Lee.”
I nod as we ride side by side down the sunny, leaf-strewn street.
I have no idea what he’s talking about.
***
“Maybe I will add shoulder plates.”
“Good, it’ll make you look broader.”
“I don’t want to look too broad.”
“Yes. Yes, you do – that’s the whole point.”
***
All morning, I’ve been excitedly telling Ben about my potential upcoming adventures. He’s reasonably puzzled when he notices I’m leaving the library with A Girl’s Guide to Surfing.
“You’re going surfing in the desert?”
And in that instant, it hits me: I’m as much of a enigma to him as he is to me.
Awesome.
***
A week later, my assistance is requested to finish up the shoulder plates.
“Do you want some juice?”
“What kind?”
“Spinach and coconut.”
“Yes.”
“It’s the closest thing to human blood in the vegetable kingdom.”
“...”
“Check it out on the Internet! I mean, you won’t find the exact proportions, but... it’s the vitamins, and the coconut is similar to plasma...”
My phone rings.
“Hey Mum! Yeah, just over at my friend’s place. He’s making spinach-and-coconut juice. Yes. It’s apparently the closest thing in the vegetable kingdom to human blood... No, he’s not Australian.”
Ben shouts over the juicer: “We’re vegan vampires!!”
My poor mother.
***
Ben has been battling some visa issues. Finally, a few more background details: his residency is sponsored by the Church of England.
“The Church thinks I’m sent from God – how funny is that?! I’m pretty good with the legal stuff. Think it’s the Jew in me. Man, would Popeye be proud of us,” as I'm handed a tall glass of thick green juice. “I’ve had to hack away at everything I get. No one looks at me and says, ‘Here’s a cool guy.’”
“Mmm...”
“Mind you, it’s different for chicks.”
“What?”
“The game of life.”
“Oh.”
“I worry about you a bit.... But you’ll be fine. Your boat will come in. Or at very least, run aground at some point. Yes, Ah-Lee. You are an interesting character.”
Considering the source, a high compliment, indeed.
The New Van
"I don't think this is actually a van; it's a bus," I suggest as we climb into Ian's massive new-to-him vehicle.
"It'll fit 14 once I get all the seat in."
"Looks at this! I can stand back here. It's the size of me. This van is big-ah than my kitchen, " says Dana as she plunks herself into the front seat.
Ian is smoothly maneuvering through the traffic, impressive in this monster, not to mention at night. I tell him as much.
"Yeah, not bad considering I've only been driving for 5 weeks."
"You mean, 5 weeks in Australia? Wow, this is good," fauns Dana.
"No no. Five weeks total. I never drove in Ireland."
Ian does a quick shoulder check and pulls into the left lane, gracefully and without hesitation.
***
"Have you decided on a name?"
"Not yet. Maybe I'll call it Dana..."
"Well, I would be very flattered, but you certainly don't have to do that."
"Maybe Standing Dana?"
***
We're taking Kate back to St. Kilda, cruising along Punt Road.
"I know exactly what I'm gonna do when I get home: have a pitch black shower," announces Kate. "You know, turn off the lights and just stand there under the hot water for... [pause] water-restriction amount of time."
Ian asserts that's the funniest thing Kate has ever said.
"It'll fit 14 once I get all the seat in."
"Looks at this! I can stand back here. It's the size of me. This van is big-ah than my kitchen, " says Dana as she plunks herself into the front seat.
Ian is smoothly maneuvering through the traffic, impressive in this monster, not to mention at night. I tell him as much.
"Yeah, not bad considering I've only been driving for 5 weeks."
"You mean, 5 weeks in Australia? Wow, this is good," fauns Dana.
"No no. Five weeks total. I never drove in Ireland."
Ian does a quick shoulder check and pulls into the left lane, gracefully and without hesitation.
***
"Have you decided on a name?"
"Not yet. Maybe I'll call it Dana..."
"Well, I would be very flattered, but you certainly don't have to do that."
"Maybe Standing Dana?"
***
We're taking Kate back to St. Kilda, cruising along Punt Road.
"I know exactly what I'm gonna do when I get home: have a pitch black shower," announces Kate. "You know, turn off the lights and just stand there under the hot water for... [pause] water-restriction amount of time."
Ian asserts that's the funniest thing Kate has ever said.
Kinglake
June 7th
"Like the sign," I shout over to Brad, who's rummaging through the centre of his charred-out lot.
"Thanks. Thought it was funny."
Brad lost his house in the bush fires that were raging outside Melbourne when I first arrived in Australia. As did a third of the residents of Kinglake.
It's a sunny Sunday and Brad called in the morning for a drive to see his property, where his house was. Shortly after leaving the city, the road is flanked by stands of blackened tree trunks: I had no idea just how close the fires had been.
Driving through Kinglake, Brad points out various spots, telling amazing stories, people who made it, those who didn't. His two young boys sit in the back seat: the house they lived in with their mom also burned down. Brad built both that house and his own.
And I don't know what to say.
That always seems like a trite, empty, clichéed expression: I don't know what to say. But there are times when that's simply the case; we're struck dumb by unimaginable events.
I'm so rarely at a loss for words.
Brad's attitude and demeanor seem almost at odds with the circumstances. He's positive, happy, upbeat, seemingly carefree. It's not until I see the Lost House sign that I get it: not good, not bad -- it just is.
And I don't have to say anything.
Only bear witness.
***
Later in the afternoon, we head down to the local pub. Brad knows everyone. The small town, country vibe could easily put this place in Albert County (where I'm from). People are chewin' the fat and tellin' tales. I'm instantly drawn into the fold, accepted in the blink of the eye thanks to my status as Brad's guest.
And I can say anything. Because it's not good, it's not bad.
It just is.
Lost
One house. Mid-sized, white exterior, large sentimental value.
If found, please return to:
Brad Carson
34 Crestridge Road, Kinglake
"Like the sign," I shout over to Brad, who's rummaging through the centre of his charred-out lot.
"Thanks. Thought it was funny."
Brad lost his house in the bush fires that were raging outside Melbourne when I first arrived in Australia. As did a third of the residents of Kinglake.
It's a sunny Sunday and Brad called in the morning for a drive to see his property, where his house was. Shortly after leaving the city, the road is flanked by stands of blackened tree trunks: I had no idea just how close the fires had been.
Driving through Kinglake, Brad points out various spots, telling amazing stories, people who made it, those who didn't. His two young boys sit in the back seat: the house they lived in with their mom also burned down. Brad built both that house and his own.
And I don't know what to say.
That always seems like a trite, empty, clichéed expression: I don't know what to say. But there are times when that's simply the case; we're struck dumb by unimaginable events.
I'm so rarely at a loss for words.
Brad's attitude and demeanor seem almost at odds with the circumstances. He's positive, happy, upbeat, seemingly carefree. It's not until I see the Lost House sign that I get it: not good, not bad -- it just is.
And I don't have to say anything.
Only bear witness.
***
Later in the afternoon, we head down to the local pub. Brad knows everyone. The small town, country vibe could easily put this place in Albert County (where I'm from). People are chewin' the fat and tellin' tales. I'm instantly drawn into the fold, accepted in the blink of the eye thanks to my status as Brad's guest.
And I can say anything. Because it's not good, it's not bad.
It just is.
Berocca & Bourbon
"Berocca & Bourbon, darling?"
"Don't mind if I do."
It's entirely possible that Berocca -- effervescent vitamin tablets -- exists outside of Australia*. Personally, I had never encountered it before coming here, where it finds a devoted following. Poor Man's Vegetables, as Harrie describes.
We're getting ready for a night out in the city, starting with burlesque at Eurotrash. Tisi has reluctantly put aside the rag rug she's been obsessively working on. Since learning how less than a week ago, she's nearly completed a fair-sized rug. "I just... can't... stop!" has been the refrain of the past few days.
"I'm pretty sure most people take, like, a month or two to finish a whole rug, man."
"I know..."
"So, put down the fabric. Come on, you can do it."
"Oh-kaay," she relents with a sigh.
We have just discovered we can share most clothes, including shoes. I'm taller and proportionately larger than Tisi in all directions, but only to the extent that everything feels like it's shrunkl a touch in the wash.
***
On the bike ride down, Tisi mentions that it's Lesbian Burlesque night: no boys allowed. Sudden relief that Richard had alternate plans and declined my invitation. Can you imagine: "So, I know I invited you out an' everything, but you actually can't come in..."
Tisi has forgotten her phone and is concerned we won't be able to find the bar, since she can't call the people we're meeting for directions. I, however, had looked up the address a few days earlier, and take us straight there. Ah, the practical applications of photographic memory!
Tisi is impressed. She tells me about the many times she's lost and forgotten things: wallets, clothing, phones, keys. Especially keys. She asks if I've seen her tattoo.
When she was 18, loss of keys became such a problem, she spontaneously decided to get a tattoo: Tisi, don't trust your head. Her friend suggested the more direct Don't Forget Your Keys.
Out they marched to the tattoo parlour. A fairly cheap establishment, they didn't have any font templates. So they went back home and, with the help of Microsoft Word, found the perfect font for the reminder.
By this point in the story, we're in the dark club and I'm fiddling with the bag Tisi's lent me, searching for my bike light.
"Impressive drawstring use. I never remember to use the drawstring."
"That may explain why you lose things."
"Hmm... point."
Tisi has pulled the left side of her pants down enough for the bike light to illuminate Don't Forget Your Keys across her hip.
In Times New Roman.
***
The burlesque itself is decent. The first girl out hula-hoops and jumps rope while wearing roller skates. Quite a feat, to be sure, but she's a little stiff as a performer. I lean over and tell Tisi she'd be so much better if she dropped the 70's porn face. Tisi bursts out laughing, "That's what it is!"
***
In between set-ups, we boogie up a storm on the dance floor. A tall, gorgeous blond joins us, overtly trying to make her girlfriend jealous. Tisi and I both agreed the attention is highly flattering and that we are, by far, the hottest couple there, despite being a pair of faux-lesbians.
[*According to Wikipedia, Berocca taken before drinking alcohol is said to prevent hangovers -- which may explain it as Tisi's choice of mix with bourbon. It also does exist outside Australia, but not in North America, kiddos. Sorry.]
"Don't mind if I do."
It's entirely possible that Berocca -- effervescent vitamin tablets -- exists outside of Australia*. Personally, I had never encountered it before coming here, where it finds a devoted following. Poor Man's Vegetables, as Harrie describes.
We're getting ready for a night out in the city, starting with burlesque at Eurotrash. Tisi has reluctantly put aside the rag rug she's been obsessively working on. Since learning how less than a week ago, she's nearly completed a fair-sized rug. "I just... can't... stop!" has been the refrain of the past few days.
"I'm pretty sure most people take, like, a month or two to finish a whole rug, man."
"I know..."
"So, put down the fabric. Come on, you can do it."
"Oh-kaay," she relents with a sigh.
We have just discovered we can share most clothes, including shoes. I'm taller and proportionately larger than Tisi in all directions, but only to the extent that everything feels like it's shrunkl a touch in the wash.
***
On the bike ride down, Tisi mentions that it's Lesbian Burlesque night: no boys allowed. Sudden relief that Richard had alternate plans and declined my invitation. Can you imagine: "So, I know I invited you out an' everything, but you actually can't come in..."
Tisi has forgotten her phone and is concerned we won't be able to find the bar, since she can't call the people we're meeting for directions. I, however, had looked up the address a few days earlier, and take us straight there. Ah, the practical applications of photographic memory!
Tisi is impressed. She tells me about the many times she's lost and forgotten things: wallets, clothing, phones, keys. Especially keys. She asks if I've seen her tattoo.
When she was 18, loss of keys became such a problem, she spontaneously decided to get a tattoo: Tisi, don't trust your head. Her friend suggested the more direct Don't Forget Your Keys.
Out they marched to the tattoo parlour. A fairly cheap establishment, they didn't have any font templates. So they went back home and, with the help of Microsoft Word, found the perfect font for the reminder.
By this point in the story, we're in the dark club and I'm fiddling with the bag Tisi's lent me, searching for my bike light.
"Impressive drawstring use. I never remember to use the drawstring."
"That may explain why you lose things."
"Hmm... point."
Tisi has pulled the left side of her pants down enough for the bike light to illuminate Don't Forget Your Keys across her hip.
In Times New Roman.
***
The burlesque itself is decent. The first girl out hula-hoops and jumps rope while wearing roller skates. Quite a feat, to be sure, but she's a little stiff as a performer. I lean over and tell Tisi she'd be so much better if she dropped the 70's porn face. Tisi bursts out laughing, "That's what it is!"
***
In between set-ups, we boogie up a storm on the dance floor. A tall, gorgeous blond joins us, overtly trying to make her girlfriend jealous. Tisi and I both agreed the attention is highly flattering and that we are, by far, the hottest couple there, despite being a pair of faux-lesbians.
[*According to Wikipedia, Berocca taken before drinking alcohol is said to prevent hangovers -- which may explain it as Tisi's choice of mix with bourbon. It also does exist outside Australia, but not in North America, kiddos. Sorry.]
Signs, signs, everywhere signs
8 Indications of an Elevated Blood Alcohol Level:
1) Quadrupedal ascension of stairs.
2) Attempted removal of contact lenses 10 minutes after they've been taken out.
3) Illegibility of notes.
4) General lameness of legible notes, considered "golden" while in state of inebriation.
5) Escorting friend on 45 minute walk home after quasi-kidnapping attempt results in her missing the last tram.
6) Refusal of cab fare for return trip at 3am, in the rain, when there's work in a few hours.
7) Chocolate accepted as fuel for return journey.
8) Third attempted removal of contact lenses.
1) Quadrupedal ascension of stairs.
2) Attempted removal of contact lenses 10 minutes after they've been taken out.
3) Illegibility of notes.
4) General lameness of legible notes, considered "golden" while in state of inebriation.
5) Escorting friend on 45 minute walk home after quasi-kidnapping attempt results in her missing the last tram.
6) Refusal of cab fare for return trip at 3am, in the rain, when there's work in a few hours.
7) Chocolate accepted as fuel for return journey.
8) Third attempted removal of contact lenses.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
The Accident
April 28th
I'm in my room when the front door bangs open.
"Is anyone home?!"
"Yeah, what's up?"
I meet Tisi on the landing of the stairs. She latches on with a fierce hug. "I just got hit by a car on my bike."
The BMW had pulled out quick. Jackamo, the 21 year old driver, was in a hurry and not paying attention. Car hit bike and sent Tisi flying backward.
As she fell, she watched her shoes come off her feet and soar through the air in slow-motion before joining her on the ground.
***
She's not feeling too much pain and, remarkably, has only a few scrapes that are quickly cleaned up. Nonetheless, Harrie and I decide a visit to the hospital isn't a bad idea. I grumble that the guy should have taken her directly, what was he thinking. Harrie calls a cab and I make some sweet, milky tea (which someone had recently described to me as sookie-la-la tea).
The cab pulls up, I grab a deck of cards and chess board and we're out the door.
***
Three hours, a game of chess, and several rounds of cards later, the intake nurse who's just come on shift is reviewing everyone's status.
"What happened?"
"I got hit by a car on my bike."
"So, you fell off your bike?"
"Well, I got hit by a car and then I fell off..."
"So. You fell off your bike."
Sigh.
"Yes."
By this point most of the shock and adrenalin has worked through Tisi's system; she's still not feeling any acute pain and decides it's best we go home.
***
I certainly wish my darling housemate hadn't been hit by a car (while on her bike, which she then fell off of, thank you for clarifying, Nurse.)
But on the positive side:
1) Tisi's stiffness lasted only a few days and the scrapes healed up shortly after.
2) Jackamo paid for the nearly $600 worth of repairs to Tisi's bike ("No dramas," as they say here).
3) Tisi and I have been two peas in a pod ever since.
Nothing brings people close together like trauma, sookie-la-la tea, and chess in a hospital waiting room.
I'm in my room when the front door bangs open.
"Is anyone home?!"
"Yeah, what's up?"
I meet Tisi on the landing of the stairs. She latches on with a fierce hug. "I just got hit by a car on my bike."
The BMW had pulled out quick. Jackamo, the 21 year old driver, was in a hurry and not paying attention. Car hit bike and sent Tisi flying backward.
As she fell, she watched her shoes come off her feet and soar through the air in slow-motion before joining her on the ground.
***
She's not feeling too much pain and, remarkably, has only a few scrapes that are quickly cleaned up. Nonetheless, Harrie and I decide a visit to the hospital isn't a bad idea. I grumble that the guy should have taken her directly, what was he thinking. Harrie calls a cab and I make some sweet, milky tea (which someone had recently described to me as sookie-la-la tea).
The cab pulls up, I grab a deck of cards and chess board and we're out the door.
***
Three hours, a game of chess, and several rounds of cards later, the intake nurse who's just come on shift is reviewing everyone's status.
"What happened?"
"I got hit by a car on my bike."
"So, you fell off your bike?"
"Well, I got hit by a car and then I fell off..."
"So. You fell off your bike."
Sigh.
"Yes."
By this point most of the shock and adrenalin has worked through Tisi's system; she's still not feeling any acute pain and decides it's best we go home.
***
I certainly wish my darling housemate hadn't been hit by a car (while on her bike, which she then fell off of, thank you for clarifying, Nurse.)
But on the positive side:
1) Tisi's stiffness lasted only a few days and the scrapes healed up shortly after.
2) Jackamo paid for the nearly $600 worth of repairs to Tisi's bike ("No dramas," as they say here).
3) Tisi and I have been two peas in a pod ever since.
Nothing brings people close together like trauma, sookie-la-la tea, and chess in a hospital waiting room.
The Fig Party
July 8th
I'm sitting in our back garden, soaking up the sunshine. It's very warm today, much more like mid-summer than mid-winter. The only indication of the season is the bare fig tree, its dormancy stark in contrast to the lush green foliage of the nearby trees, ivy, and bamboo.
Our seasonally bountiful fig tree and the rainbow lorikeets that frequent its branches were a major drawing feature when I first came to look at 43 Barkly. In the weeks after moving in, Pitisi and I would brainstorm uses for the seemingly endless crop: stewed figs, fig jams, figs in everything. Figs on the window sill, on the table, everywhere. Tisi even took a huge sack-worth to the produce swap at CERES enviro park, returning with peppers, eggplant, and zucchini.
It was one of Tisi's friends who planted the seed: We should host a fig party.
***
Saturday, April 25th
The day of The Fig Party arrives and the kitchen is a hive of activity: fig pastries, fig brownies, potato salad, mulled wine from scratch, baked figs wrapped in prosciutto and stuffed with goat cheese -- a most decadent delicacy.
I head out back to see if I can help Tisi tidy and set up. But she's not there. I go back inside and ask. No, she should be out there as no one has seen her come in. I look again; the garden is not large and offers little in the way of hiding places.
"Tisi?"
"Yeah?"
There she is, in the upper most branches of the tree, selecting the finest examples of our crop. She swings herself down onto the 7ft high wall, and arms ladden with fruit, carefully balances her way across. I can't help but have images of Anne of Green Gables walking across the roof and think that, should this venture end similarly with a tumble, there won't be much of a party after.
But Tisi is confident and all smiles, looking ever so slightly like a dark-haired Shirley Temple: curly-mopped, freckled and dimpled, with a distinct mischievous glint in her eye. (Is it any wonder I derive great pleasure teaching her to tap dance in the kitchen? If only I could get her to sing On The Good Ship Lollipop...)
She clambers down onto the milk crate precariously balanced on a step ladder without hesitation.
***
The party is a great success: an afternoon replete with delectable conversation and delicious food. My friend Maya is completely glowing, floating on a cloud of bliss: the object of her affection is arriving in Melbourne in a few days. Her joy is infectious.
It starts to drizzle just as there's talk of moving indoors. The majority of our guests live south of the Yarra, which presents itself as a mental barrier to some. But as one of Tisi's friends so aptly puts:
43 Barkly proved itself worthy of river-crossing.
May it be the first of many.
I'm sitting in our back garden, soaking up the sunshine. It's very warm today, much more like mid-summer than mid-winter. The only indication of the season is the bare fig tree, its dormancy stark in contrast to the lush green foliage of the nearby trees, ivy, and bamboo.
Our seasonally bountiful fig tree and the rainbow lorikeets that frequent its branches were a major drawing feature when I first came to look at 43 Barkly. In the weeks after moving in, Pitisi and I would brainstorm uses for the seemingly endless crop: stewed figs, fig jams, figs in everything. Figs on the window sill, on the table, everywhere. Tisi even took a huge sack-worth to the produce swap at CERES enviro park, returning with peppers, eggplant, and zucchini.
It was one of Tisi's friends who planted the seed: We should host a fig party.
***
Saturday, April 25th
The day of The Fig Party arrives and the kitchen is a hive of activity: fig pastries, fig brownies, potato salad, mulled wine from scratch, baked figs wrapped in prosciutto and stuffed with goat cheese -- a most decadent delicacy.
I head out back to see if I can help Tisi tidy and set up. But she's not there. I go back inside and ask. No, she should be out there as no one has seen her come in. I look again; the garden is not large and offers little in the way of hiding places.
"Tisi?"
"Yeah?"
There she is, in the upper most branches of the tree, selecting the finest examples of our crop. She swings herself down onto the 7ft high wall, and arms ladden with fruit, carefully balances her way across. I can't help but have images of Anne of Green Gables walking across the roof and think that, should this venture end similarly with a tumble, there won't be much of a party after.
But Tisi is confident and all smiles, looking ever so slightly like a dark-haired Shirley Temple: curly-mopped, freckled and dimpled, with a distinct mischievous glint in her eye. (Is it any wonder I derive great pleasure teaching her to tap dance in the kitchen? If only I could get her to sing On The Good Ship Lollipop...)
She clambers down onto the milk crate precariously balanced on a step ladder without hesitation.
***
The party is a great success: an afternoon replete with delectable conversation and delicious food. My friend Maya is completely glowing, floating on a cloud of bliss: the object of her affection is arriving in Melbourne in a few days. Her joy is infectious.
It starts to drizzle just as there's talk of moving indoors. The majority of our guests live south of the Yarra, which presents itself as a mental barrier to some. But as one of Tisi's friends so aptly puts:
"I don't often cross the river, but I love it when I do."
43 Barkly proved itself worthy of river-crossing.
May it be the first of many.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Mick Dundee and Other Tales
Today's lunch took much planning to co-ordinate; the Sudoku of Dates.
Kate is telling us that her friend Dan met Paul "Crocodile Dundee" Hogan on a flight to Darwin. They hit it off -- "Everyone likes Dan," says Kate -- and Paul Hogan gave Dan his phone number, with instructions to call.
So, Dan did.
Mr. Dundee asked him to call back later: he couldn't talk long because he was in the bush, hunting feral crocs.
Sometimes, I wonder why I've stayed in Melbourne so long...
***
Maggie, Kate's friend from home, is also in Melbourne. Maggie was on her way to meet a guy for a date. While waiting at the corner for the lights to change, an older very drunk man starts chatting to her. He then asks if she'd like to go out with him. Maggie politely declines and adds, "I admire your guts."
Just then, the light changes. She's midway through the intersection, when the drunk -- who had obviously misheard her -- yells at top volume, "I AM NOT A GOAT!"
Well, Maggie found this hilarious, and was still laughing when she met her date. The date did not see anything funny about the incident. At all.
Maggie went to the washroom to compose herself. As she sat through the rest of dinner, she could only think one thing: "This certainly isn't going to work."
***
Kate recently found out that Rick, her favorite fabulously flamboyant regular is Rick Stein, who wrote for Seinfeld. He's taken a real shine to her.
Recently, he marched straight up her at work and said something along the lines of, "You're a beautiful girl, but your make-up is terrible. So, I got you this."
Out comes a little bag of Prada make-up.
"Every girl should own Prada, darling."
And what was the highlight of my work day, you ask?
I got to speak French to a woman from Mauritius.
At least I'm making $21 an hour.
Kate is telling us that her friend Dan met Paul "Crocodile Dundee" Hogan on a flight to Darwin. They hit it off -- "Everyone likes Dan," says Kate -- and Paul Hogan gave Dan his phone number, with instructions to call.
So, Dan did.
Mr. Dundee asked him to call back later: he couldn't talk long because he was in the bush, hunting feral crocs.
Sometimes, I wonder why I've stayed in Melbourne so long...
***
Maggie, Kate's friend from home, is also in Melbourne. Maggie was on her way to meet a guy for a date. While waiting at the corner for the lights to change, an older very drunk man starts chatting to her. He then asks if she'd like to go out with him. Maggie politely declines and adds, "I admire your guts."
Just then, the light changes. She's midway through the intersection, when the drunk -- who had obviously misheard her -- yells at top volume, "I AM NOT A GOAT!"
Well, Maggie found this hilarious, and was still laughing when she met her date. The date did not see anything funny about the incident. At all.
Maggie went to the washroom to compose herself. As she sat through the rest of dinner, she could only think one thing: "This certainly isn't going to work."
***
Kate recently found out that Rick, her favorite fabulously flamboyant regular is Rick Stein, who wrote for Seinfeld. He's taken a real shine to her.
Recently, he marched straight up her at work and said something along the lines of, "You're a beautiful girl, but your make-up is terrible. So, I got you this."
Out comes a little bag of Prada make-up.
"Every girl should own Prada, darling."
And what was the highlight of my work day, you ask?
I got to speak French to a woman from Mauritius.
At least I'm making $21 an hour.
Lunch with the Girls
May 6th
Dana and I are standing outside a café on Acland Street in St. Kilda. While waiting for Kate, we've been perusing the various menus, in search of the optimal lunch deal. Dana is grumpy -- a highly unusual state for her -- and has just asked me what a "minute steak" is. My "not sure" artfully accented by shoulder-shrug response is entirely unsatisfactory.
"Ah-nee, English eez your mother tongue: why do you not know what this means?"
"Easy there, short stuff. I assume it's small, you know -- cooked in a minute?"
But I've already lost my cred.
When Kate turns up a little later and gives the same answer with authority, Dana nods, "Ah, got it."
"Hey, I just said that!"
Half-smile from Dana.
Kate: "Ace. Now luvs, where we going? I need a MA-ssive coffee..."
***
The three of us met at the Ghost House on Wellington. Kate and Dana were sharing a room, having arrived at our dodgy digs about two months before me. Kate moved out shortly after I did, and Dana a month later when the house was condemned (how awesome is that?!).
74 Wellington may have been a slum -- eg: Dana battled an unidentifiable skin ailment that sent her to the hospital 3 times, only to have it clear up days after leaving -- but add Gina and Ian to the mix (who now live in the suburb over from me) and that house introduced me to four amazing people I now consider family. I count my astounding good fortune every time I see them.
[Just writing this gets me a little verklempt.]
***
Since moving out of Wellington, we make a point of meeting up once a week, typically for a marathon-length lunch. As we sit chatting, I can't help wondering if any of the people around us pick up on our international flavor: Kate from Ireland, Dana from Italy, and me as the North American representative.
We could be at a café anywhere.
***
Kate is giving us a dose of celebrity sightings:
Lindsay Lohan out shopping with two huge bodyguards.
Dana, between drags of her cigarette: "I would like to have bodyguards... but no one bothers me."
Eric Bana buying a magazine bearing him on the cover.
Dana: " I would like to buy a magazine with a picture of myself on it."
[Upon a later retelling, I'm informed that Bana, an Aussie, has no publicist and does all that end of the business himself. Which would include buying articles featuring himself from the corner store.]
Dana and I are standing outside a café on Acland Street in St. Kilda. While waiting for Kate, we've been perusing the various menus, in search of the optimal lunch deal. Dana is grumpy -- a highly unusual state for her -- and has just asked me what a "minute steak" is. My "not sure" artfully accented by shoulder-shrug response is entirely unsatisfactory.
"Ah-nee, English eez your mother tongue: why do you not know what this means?"
"Easy there, short stuff. I assume it's small, you know -- cooked in a minute?"
But I've already lost my cred.
When Kate turns up a little later and gives the same answer with authority, Dana nods, "Ah, got it."
"Hey, I just said that!"
Half-smile from Dana.
Kate: "Ace. Now luvs, where we going? I need a MA-ssive coffee..."
***
The three of us met at the Ghost House on Wellington. Kate and Dana were sharing a room, having arrived at our dodgy digs about two months before me. Kate moved out shortly after I did, and Dana a month later when the house was condemned (how awesome is that?!).
74 Wellington may have been a slum -- eg: Dana battled an unidentifiable skin ailment that sent her to the hospital 3 times, only to have it clear up days after leaving -- but add Gina and Ian to the mix (who now live in the suburb over from me) and that house introduced me to four amazing people I now consider family. I count my astounding good fortune every time I see them.
[Just writing this gets me a little verklempt.]
***
Since moving out of Wellington, we make a point of meeting up once a week, typically for a marathon-length lunch. As we sit chatting, I can't help wondering if any of the people around us pick up on our international flavor: Kate from Ireland, Dana from Italy, and me as the North American representative.
We could be at a café anywhere.
***
Kate is giving us a dose of celebrity sightings:
Lindsay Lohan out shopping with two huge bodyguards.
Dana, between drags of her cigarette: "I would like to have bodyguards... but no one bothers me."
Eric Bana buying a magazine bearing him on the cover.
Dana: " I would like to buy a magazine with a picture of myself on it."
[Upon a later retelling, I'm informed that Bana, an Aussie, has no publicist and does all that end of the business himself. Which would include buying articles featuring himself from the corner store.]
You Can't Fool the Camera
June 22nd
Dana is waiting for me at the corner of Elizabeth and LaTrobe, arms tightly wrapped to brace against the cold.
"Sorry, ah-nee, but tha place eez closed."
Dana is from Venice. She often calls me honey, which comes out as ah-nee. (She's also taken to saying, "Love you long time" when we part company, I assume because it nearly kills me every time she does.)
It's been over a week since we've seen each other -- practically unheard in the three months we've known each other -- and the plan was to meet in the city and catch up over cheap wine. It was, in fact, over cheap wine on Chapel Street that we first bonded, back in March. "$3 a glass?! Ah-nee, I mean, ca-mon!"
I mean, ca-mon! is another favorite, as is her habit of saying "blah" exactly 9 times in quick succession, although of late I've noticed she occasionally abbreviates this to 4.
["Come on" or "ca-mon" became something of a joke the summer I worked in an Italian restaurant nearly 10 years ago, as it was Chef Morau's most frequently used phrase. By far. Maybe it's an Italian thing.]
"Well, what do you think?"
It's 10:45pm on a Monday: our closest options are limited to a noisy sports bar and an overpriced hostel pub.
No promise of cheap wine in sight.
"Listen, ah-nee: I have a bottle of wine in my bag."
"Perfect. So do I.
Not that we typically carry bottles of wine around with us. Dana picked up groceries after work on the way to meet me -- as an Italian, wine qualifies as a staple. I had been at Sally's for dinner, not that I usually take leftover wine with me, but she was leaving for China in two days and insisted. How lucky for us.
***
And so we find ourselves on a bench outside the Queen Victoria Markets, bathed in the glow of a street light, our fast-paced frenetic conversations interrupted only by swigs from the bottles.
Not long after settling in, a security guard walks by. We see him approaching and, without missing a beat, the wine is tucked away. A polite nod-and-smile and, after he's gone, we heartily congratulate ourselves for our quick-thinking deception under pressure.
And the wine's back out.
Round two: Dana gets creative with some planted evocative questions as the security guard comes by about 10 minutes later. When the coast is clear, she tells me it was to throw off suspicion. I'm impressed by her style.
The third time, I take it upon myself to comment on how late it's getting, we should think about going.
By the fourth time around -- one bottle down and the second well on its way -- we go the uproarious laughter route. Because clearly nothing speaks higher to one's innocence.
That's the wine's theory in such matters. Needless to say, wine rarely knows what the hell it's talking about.
Our performance at this point is abysmally amateurish, so imagine our surprise when again the guard keeps moving without pause or comment.
Brilliant. Obviously, this demonstrates we are above reproach.
Round five and neither of us are fazed.
"How much longer do you ladies think you'll be here," the guard asks, standing across from us at what feels like an unnecessarily far distance, as though we may have foreign cooties.
"Oh gosh, not much longer... we both have to work in the morning and it's getting late," I say with biggest eyes, in sweetest voice.
"It's fine, but can you move to that bench over there?"
"Um... OK?"
"Just 'cause of the camera."
I look to where he's pointing: a surveillance camera angled directly at our well-lit bench.
***
I have to say, top marks go to this guard for his out-of-sight/out-of-mind approach to security (almost Canadian).
Hopefully, our ridiculous and hilariously transparent charade brightened his night.
Dana is waiting for me at the corner of Elizabeth and LaTrobe, arms tightly wrapped to brace against the cold.
"Sorry, ah-nee, but tha place eez closed."
Dana is from Venice. She often calls me honey, which comes out as ah-nee. (She's also taken to saying, "Love you long time" when we part company, I assume because it nearly kills me every time she does.)
It's been over a week since we've seen each other -- practically unheard in the three months we've known each other -- and the plan was to meet in the city and catch up over cheap wine. It was, in fact, over cheap wine on Chapel Street that we first bonded, back in March. "$3 a glass?! Ah-nee, I mean, ca-mon!"
I mean, ca-mon! is another favorite, as is her habit of saying "blah" exactly 9 times in quick succession, although of late I've noticed she occasionally abbreviates this to 4.
["Come on" or "ca-mon" became something of a joke the summer I worked in an Italian restaurant nearly 10 years ago, as it was Chef Morau's most frequently used phrase. By far. Maybe it's an Italian thing.]
"Well, what do you think?"
It's 10:45pm on a Monday: our closest options are limited to a noisy sports bar and an overpriced hostel pub.
No promise of cheap wine in sight.
"Listen, ah-nee: I have a bottle of wine in my bag."
"Perfect. So do I.
Not that we typically carry bottles of wine around with us. Dana picked up groceries after work on the way to meet me -- as an Italian, wine qualifies as a staple. I had been at Sally's for dinner, not that I usually take leftover wine with me, but she was leaving for China in two days and insisted. How lucky for us.
***
And so we find ourselves on a bench outside the Queen Victoria Markets, bathed in the glow of a street light, our fast-paced frenetic conversations interrupted only by swigs from the bottles.
Not long after settling in, a security guard walks by. We see him approaching and, without missing a beat, the wine is tucked away. A polite nod-and-smile and, after he's gone, we heartily congratulate ourselves for our quick-thinking deception under pressure.
And the wine's back out.
Round two: Dana gets creative with some planted evocative questions as the security guard comes by about 10 minutes later. When the coast is clear, she tells me it was to throw off suspicion. I'm impressed by her style.
The third time, I take it upon myself to comment on how late it's getting, we should think about going.
By the fourth time around -- one bottle down and the second well on its way -- we go the uproarious laughter route. Because clearly nothing speaks higher to one's innocence.
That's the wine's theory in such matters. Needless to say, wine rarely knows what the hell it's talking about.
Our performance at this point is abysmally amateurish, so imagine our surprise when again the guard keeps moving without pause or comment.
Brilliant. Obviously, this demonstrates we are above reproach.
Round five and neither of us are fazed.
"How much longer do you ladies think you'll be here," the guard asks, standing across from us at what feels like an unnecessarily far distance, as though we may have foreign cooties.
"Oh gosh, not much longer... we both have to work in the morning and it's getting late," I say with biggest eyes, in sweetest voice.
"It's fine, but can you move to that bench over there?"
"Um... OK?"
"Just 'cause of the camera."
I look to where he's pointing: a surveillance camera angled directly at our well-lit bench.
***
I have to say, top marks go to this guard for his out-of-sight/out-of-mind approach to security (almost Canadian).
Hopefully, our ridiculous and hilariously transparent charade brightened his night.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
The Living Dead Bike Gang
June 27th
"What do vegetarian zombies eat?"
"... this sounds like a joke," Tisi shouts from behind me.
"Yes. That's because it is a joke."
"K, what do vegetarian zombies eat?" indulges Jo-Lynn, off to my left.
"Graaaiiiinnsss!!"
We're biking along Brunswick Road amid the Saturday night traffic, en route to a zombie-themed warehouse party. Now and then, our appearance generates perplexed stares from the motorists around us:
Zombie Coroner, Zombie Bride, Zombie Rock Star.
In bike helmets.
***
I told Tisi about the party earlier in the week. Zombie Rock Star was born out of a pair of fourth-hand, skin-tight, snake-skin-patterned pants so atrocious, they supersede any possibility of fabulousness and land squarely on hideous. [Still, I can't help but love them.]
I, however, was stumped. Harrie offered up a lab coat covered in fake blood. A perfect fit.
And really, who more likely than a coroner to succumb in the early days of a zombie incursion?
***
It's 10:45pm on Saturday when I get home after a long day, a gnawing headache the result of wearing my glasses for too long. Tisi tells me Jo-Lynn is up for the party, which is exciting since her studies [medicine] monopolize her time and energy.
I give a meek wuss-out attempt, but Tisi's not biting. We won't be out late, I'm told. Go rest for a few minutes, then we'll head to Jo-Lynn's: she has make-up.
***
Impromptu Make-Up Requirements for The Living Dead:
- talcum powder, over a thick base of moisturising cream
- black eye liner
- dark blue eye shadow
- red lipstick, the color and texture of cheese wax, ideally aged upwards of 10 years
***
We turn onto the bike path that runs along the train tracks, a route I don't normally take. There's something surreal and magical about the dimly-lit landscape. Sheltered from direct view, it encourages astoundingly complex, detailed street art and graffiti, amazing pieces even by Melbourne's high standards. It's like riding through a long, narrow gallery space.
The cyclists who pass our mini group, now travelling single-file, typically take until the last of us to register that something's up.
Approaching the leader: no response.
Passing the next in line: "Wait a minute..."
And the third: "What the hell?!"
Not a mob, and certainly not an incursion, three zombies definitely qualify as a gang.
The Living Dead Bike Gang.
***
As we enter the warehouse on Florence, the band is just starting to play Thriller. Impeccable timing.
Jacko covers are appropriately a continuing theme even after Thriller -- which, I'm pleased to say, included Vincent Price's "rap," read off a crumpled sheet of loose-leaf -- and there is much dancing.
I see Justin and say hi.
"Do you recognise me??" he asks, equal parts surprised and slurred.
His face is painted blue and gold, but otherwise, he's in his standard outfit: hounds-tooth blazer, brown hat.
"Of course! But... just barely, " I add, tacked on in answer to his crest-fallen expression. "You look... good."
He's come as a Pharaoh "'cause for zombies, that's as old school as it gets."
***
The next morning, I wake up smelling of baby powder and stale smoke and head off to work with red stains on my face, remnants of the lipstick unwilling to budge after several scrubs.
"What do vegetarian zombies eat?"
"... this sounds like a joke," Tisi shouts from behind me.
"Yes. That's because it is a joke."
"K, what do vegetarian zombies eat?" indulges Jo-Lynn, off to my left.
"Graaaiiiinnsss!!"
We're biking along Brunswick Road amid the Saturday night traffic, en route to a zombie-themed warehouse party. Now and then, our appearance generates perplexed stares from the motorists around us:
Zombie Coroner, Zombie Bride, Zombie Rock Star.
In bike helmets.
***
I told Tisi about the party earlier in the week. Zombie Rock Star was born out of a pair of fourth-hand, skin-tight, snake-skin-patterned pants so atrocious, they supersede any possibility of fabulousness and land squarely on hideous. [Still, I can't help but love them.]
I, however, was stumped. Harrie offered up a lab coat covered in fake blood. A perfect fit.
And really, who more likely than a coroner to succumb in the early days of a zombie incursion?
***
It's 10:45pm on Saturday when I get home after a long day, a gnawing headache the result of wearing my glasses for too long. Tisi tells me Jo-Lynn is up for the party, which is exciting since her studies [medicine] monopolize her time and energy.
I give a meek wuss-out attempt, but Tisi's not biting. We won't be out late, I'm told. Go rest for a few minutes, then we'll head to Jo-Lynn's: she has make-up.
***
Impromptu Make-Up Requirements for The Living Dead:
- talcum powder, over a thick base of moisturising cream
- black eye liner
- dark blue eye shadow
- red lipstick, the color and texture of cheese wax, ideally aged upwards of 10 years
***
We turn onto the bike path that runs along the train tracks, a route I don't normally take. There's something surreal and magical about the dimly-lit landscape. Sheltered from direct view, it encourages astoundingly complex, detailed street art and graffiti, amazing pieces even by Melbourne's high standards. It's like riding through a long, narrow gallery space.
The cyclists who pass our mini group, now travelling single-file, typically take until the last of us to register that something's up.
Approaching the leader: no response.
Passing the next in line: "Wait a minute..."
And the third: "What the hell?!"
Not a mob, and certainly not an incursion, three zombies definitely qualify as a gang.
The Living Dead Bike Gang.
***
As we enter the warehouse on Florence, the band is just starting to play Thriller. Impeccable timing.
Jacko covers are appropriately a continuing theme even after Thriller -- which, I'm pleased to say, included Vincent Price's "rap," read off a crumpled sheet of loose-leaf -- and there is much dancing.
I see Justin and say hi.
"Do you recognise me??" he asks, equal parts surprised and slurred.
His face is painted blue and gold, but otherwise, he's in his standard outfit: hounds-tooth blazer, brown hat.
"Of course! But... just barely, " I add, tacked on in answer to his crest-fallen expression. "You look... good."
He's come as a Pharaoh "'cause for zombies, that's as old school as it gets."
***
The next morning, I wake up smelling of baby powder and stale smoke and head off to work with red stains on my face, remnants of the lipstick unwilling to budge after several scrubs.
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