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The Bit Long, Official E-zine of The Bedroom Philosopher
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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 my YouTube 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:
JH 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.

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

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NOTICE AND DISCLAIMER

This 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.

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY

I KNITTED YOU A TRIKE.

 

Issue 85

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

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 goes with that at Susaans therefore to verify be sure to sign all harpsichords with the cordial provided. Sanctify your spaghetti in the house of love East 17 style, there will be no matinee in the cistern chapel this afternoon, govener. Bridal waltz the fish and chippery from marigold hankerchief. Ponting makes savvy saliva on the footballers watch. Yesterday all my chocolate bars seemed so far away, now I know they’re in the cupboard, oh I remember that jim carrey movie. Alright stop, collaborate and listen, agro’s cartoon connection is back with a brand new invention of lying, some poor ricky jervais movie that’s not even how you spell it skeletor. Don’t put he-man in the microwave, he hates it, perhaps you should make he-man ride my little pony and that way men and women can get along properly and forevermore. Do you like japenese biscuits? Because I don’t know of any good ones apart from ‘iced yeah yeah’s’ and ‘samurai finger biscuts’ they are supposed to represent the sliced off fingers of the failed samurai ‘dougwoug’ from the banned fable ‘seven snakes in a bin.’ Too many grain waves, too little time makes jack a dull character, especially when you randomly drop him in the middle of an episode of perfect strangers. Not even balky’s hijinks can subdue j. Nicholson’s post writers block burnout and sure enough, before you know it Larry is taking an icepick to the face and no amount of laugh tracks in the world can get that puppy up and dancing. In fact, that’s a quote from man in the moon, the andy kaufman biopic. Andy is saying how he doesn’t want to go on the sitcom ‘Taxi’ and that he hates canned laughter. He says ‘you know that’s dead people laughing. All those people have died.’ Fantastic, fantastic quote. It says everything about everything. It says enough. It says what you want it to say. It says what is says. W ****************************************************************************