Thoughts From the Bed Pan

‘As we that are left grow old’, there’s a phrase to strike terror into an aging ‘homosexualist’. As I approach my dotage and this recession/depression takes huge chunks out of my superannuation which was never enough anyway, I’m left wondering ‘what the …?’ My entire financial forward planning is now based on a Lotto win.

Was it just two years ago that I sat back thinking, “well if all else fails at least when I turn sixty five I’ll have a small income supplemented by a smaller pension to keep me in lattes and Polident”. Now I’m facing a future of Nescafe` and unstable dentures.
I had my chances; I recklessly spent one large windfall on airfares and cocaine in 1988, and reluctantly spent another on surgeons in 2003. I could’ve bought a house but somehow New York seemed like a much better proposition. I thought that if you’re going to NYC then naturally you fly first class. There was a joke often told by my friends, “How do you make a small fortune?” answer, “Give Peter a large one and wait six months”. We all laughed, some of us louder than others.

I don’t blame anyone for my decisions and god knows I had a blast making them but on reflection they may not have been altogether wise.

I have a much older friend who now lives in a private nursing home, which luckily for him is in the Eastern Suburbs. His main fear when he moved was that he would be forgotten out there in the ‘burbs’, because we Sydney queens are notorious for never travelling far from our comfort zone. You know the old saying, ‘out of sight, where’s what’s his name again?’ Luckily he has enough money to get by rather well. With global warming I’ll be lucky if there is an Ice Flow left to leave me on. I’ll be thrown into some institution in Tempe, possibly the Tip.

So I’ve been pondering my future and what’s to become of me. I’ve always been, as one of my harshest critics described, ‘a survivor’ and I’m sure I’ll get by but I want to more than just survive, I still want to have a ‘life’. I don’t see myself lining up at Mathew Talbot hoping for a bed at night but …

Is this just a problem for us ‘gay folk’? Does our lifestyle promote instant gratification and, pardon the pun, bugger the consequences? Maybe it’s just my generation; a generation that through the eighties wasn’t expected to live much into the nineties so some of us had a tendency to squander our ‘dosh’ and now we’re rather surprised at how old we’ve become.

I worry that the ‘gaylings’ of today seem destined to head down this same path to penury. Perhaps now might be the right time to revisit the wise words of one learned gent by the name of Micawber, “… annual income twenty shillings, annual expenditure twenty one shillings, result misery’.

Old age creeps up on you alarmingly fast. If I was to offer any advice, which is never a good idea because it always has a way of coming back and biting you on the bum, it would be to somehow find the means to occasionally deny yourself that next ‘NEW’ thing and put a little aside because hopefully you will lead a long, long FABULOUS life.

The Devil Made Me Do It

There is a Devil loose in Salem and she is perverting all the citizenry, at least that’s what Abigail Williams would have us believe.
‘The Crucible’, by Arthur Miller, was first performed in 1953 at the Martin Beck Theatre in New York. Mr. Miller wrote this as an allegory for the ‘witch’ hunts happening at the time under the auspices of ‘The House Committee on Un-American Activities’ hearings. Mr. Miller had been questioned by the Committee and had been found in contempt because he refused to ‘name the names’ of people who were suspected Communists. This play was Mr. Miller’s response to that sad period in American history and it has become one of the ‘stand out’ pieces of American Theatre.

‘The Crucible’ has become one of those plays that has a reputation. Most of us have seen good, bad, or indifferent productions; we have been driven to distraction by too much ‘acting’, bad sets and too many words. If the show we saw was good we have high expectations, if it was bad we’re prepared for a long, torturous night. This production will go a long way in restoring your faith; it may not be the best production ever but it is a very good one.

This abridged version is directed by Ms. Tanya Goldberg and designed by Ms. Simone Romaniuk for The Sydney Theatre Company.

This is a production that hits all the right buttons, it’s staged simply and it evokes all the right images from farmhouse to prison, from Hillsong to Abu Ghraib. The Director wisely lets the actors and the words work their magic. The cast for the most part are very good. Some of the performances are standout; special mention must go to Mr. Peter Carroll and Ms. Lynnette Curran, even when she is playing a ‘little’ out of her age range. These actors bring a maturity and sense of solidness that anchor the show. Mr. Joe Manning, as John Proctor, and Ms. Marta Dusseldorp, as his wife Elizabeth, hit their marks from the moment they step on the stage and in the second half their final scene together is electrifying.
The play has lost none of its power or impact, it still serves to remind us that those same fears that were so effectively used by Senator McCarthy are still able to win elections and sway the modern populous, think Bill O’Reilly, or closer to home, Alan Jones. In today’s world the Devil may wear a burkha, or a yarmulke or may be gay or a fundamentalist Christian, but in fact the Devil is anyone who does not believe as we do. The one thing that is certain is just how easily we, the public, can be led into dark places where fear, suspicion and paranoia are king. The message is simple; bad things happen when good men do nothing.

Is it better to live with a lie or die for the truth? The answer to this question gives measure to the character of man.

While the STC have aimed this production squarely at the school’s market, it is well worth a visit by us adults as well.

‘The Crucible’ plays at the STC, Wharf 2, from May 4 until May 30, schools performances day time at 10.30am, evening performances at 7.00pm.

Rules of (dis) Engagement

I don’t care what anyone says; breaking up is hard to do, there’s no good way to do it. Think of the repercussions if it was easy; Tammy Wynette would never have had a career, no chick flicks and Lady Oprah would still be colouring things purple.

Having said that there are a few simple rules that if followed should make it easier for all involved.

Don’t break up with your partner by sending a quick Twitter text, do it face to face. Tweet’ing is the modern equivalent of Carrie Bradshaw’s ‘post-it note’ break up. (When you do split, resist the urge to set up a Facebook group called “I Hate (insert appropriate name), he’s a Fat Skank”, it’s just wrong on so many levels). Consider other options especially if they live overseas or inter-state; a video call, phone call or a good old fashioned hand written letter. There are few things worse than finding out you have been dumped by reading it on a Facebook status line.

Don’t break up when you’re out with a group at dinner or clubbing; remember this should be a private moment between two people who once cared deeply for each other not a cabaret performed in the front Bar of your local watering hole. Think of the consequences and most importantly the availability of retaliatory weapons: the ever popular throwing of the drink to the old fashioned public biatch slap.
‘It’s not you it’s me’. Everyone knows this really means ‘it’s you not me’. Don’t say it ... you can think it, hell you can even write it in your Blog next week but under no circumstances say it.

Try not to stick the ‘knife in’ when you’re breaking up. Take the high road. Telling your ex that the only reason you were with him was to “get through winter” while you waited for someone better to come along next summer, is just plain mean - even if it is true.

Expect to lose friends, this is called collateral damage. Make no mistake battle lines will be drawn, “we never liked him, he was a thief, he was cheating”, and some of them may even be talking about ‘him’.

Picking the right time is essential. Don’t break up on ‘Meth’ Monday or ‘Eckkie’ Tuesday, or his birthday; while it might seem like a good idea to get it over with, do you really want to be the ‘one who ruined birthdays for ever for me’, for the rest of your life?

Honesty tempered with compassion, in the end, is the key. Treat your (ex) partner the way you would wish to be treated. There’s no need to read out a list of all the things that have driven you crazy over the last (insert number of months here) months; the fact that he never stacks the dishwasher, empties the washing machine, takes out the trash or that you caught him in the sling at the Sauna on Buddy night. This isn’t Nuremberg.

Be prepared to move out. I don’t mean have your bags, or his, packed and sitting at the front door, but realistically one of you is going to have to go. You can’t both share a two bedroom flat and survive, while it may seem like a good, economical idea at the time, trust me the first time either of you bring home the next Mr. Right expect to find shredded Armani in the trash and crushed crystal in your porridge.

The splitting up of the assets will actually cause you more pain than the ending of the physical relationship. If you take a few simple, precautionary steps at the start of your journey, some later heartache can be avoided: buy a magic marker and take the time to label your DVD’s, Ipod’s, Laptop’s and most importantly your pets and/or foster children, ownership will be easier to prove. At the very least buy two of everything.

So you’ve done the deed, you’re both ‘okay’ with it and seem to be getting on really well. You’ve become friends, better than you ever were when you were lovers. Now is the most dangerous time - don’t have ‘break up sex’. If you do (and lets face it, you probably will), you will plant a seed at the back of your, or worse his, mind; suddenly memories will blur, and before you know it you will begin to contemplate the possibility of getting back together. All of the good work that you’ve done, the tears, the arguments, the rationalisations and the eventual mutually agreed tolerance will come crumbling down. The past will begin to seem like Camelot and before you know it you’re changing your status on Facebook and the cycle begins again.

So, yes, breaking up is hard to do but it’s the chance you take when you love someone and let’s face it all we want is to be loved.

Metamorphosis

The thing about the theatre is that it never leaves you ambivalent – good or bad it extracts an emotive response, ‘I loved it’ – ‘I hated it’ – ‘I couldn’t have cared less about it’. After seeing the brilliant ‘Kafka’s Monkey’ I was ready and eager to dive back into the wonderful but disturbed world of Franz Kafka.

Kafka wrote the short story ‘The Metamorphosis’ in 1915. In 2005 - 06 Mr. David Farr, with Mr. Gisli Orn Gardarsson, adapted the short story into this intellectually and physically gymnastic production.

The premise is simple, set in Prague, early twentieth century, the Samsa’s, a lower middle class family with pretensions, wake up one morning to find their son Gregor, the breadwinner and provider for the family, hasn’t been to work, hasn’t been down for breakfast in fact hasn’t left his room. Indeed he isn’t quite himself anymore; he has in fact been transformed into a giant bug. What happens next is the guts of the play.

How do we cope, as a family or a society, with someone who stands out as different? How thin is the veneer that binds us all together in an unspoken contract of tolerance and civility? Mr. Farr says that he uses the play, “as an allegory for the Jewish experience in Europe during the twentieth century”, but it could just as easily relate to a family dealing with a son’s homosexuality, or family dealing with an elderly parent’s Alzheimer's Disease, or any number of events that challenge our belief in what is right, wrong or acceptable behaviour.

What should this family do when faced with their son turning into a bug? The simple answer is of course - to understand, love and support him through this trial and nurture him back to health after all that is what is expected of us. The truth is that after a short period of time the family becomes angry, repulsed and resentful of their son, he soils himself, he scares them and he makes demands on their time. The only real solution is to lock him up, throw away the key and hope that he quietly dies so the family can return to a ‘normal’ life. This is pretty much how the Samsa’s cope.

The cast are clearly strong and they know the work intimately but no retelling of this play would be complete without special mention of the incredibly athletic and gymnastic performance by Mr. Bjorn Thors, as Gregor, who clambers and crawls over the set at alarming angles.

With music, composed by Mr. Nick Cave, The Bad Seeds and Mr. Warren Ellis, that sets the tone brilliantly and a set, built over two levels, designed by Mr. Borkur Jonsson, we are transported into another reality that is both horrifying and at times funny. It’s horrifying because of its callousness, yet funny at times, because of the pretence of ‘normality’ that the family struggle to maintain. Did I say funny, well actually it’s not that funny it’s really rather bleak and you certainly don’t walk out ‘humming a show tune’, but it is a piece that speaks as eloquently today as it first did way back in 1915.

Metamorphosis is not for the faint of heart but it is well worth the effort.

Metamorphosis is on at The Sydney Theatre, Hickson Rd. 22 April – 2 May 2009.

Two Plays One Week

Two plays, one week, both by the Sydney Theatre Company - ‘Kafka’s Monkey’ and ‘The Wonderful World of Dissocia’.

One I saw, the other I struggled to catch glimpses of.

‘Kafka’s Monkey’

A brilliant one woman show based on a short story written by Czech writer Franz Kafka. ‘Red Peter’ played by Kathryn Hunter is a bravura performance by an actress who takes you through the ridiculousness of humanity.

‘A woman, playing a monkey, playing a man’.

A monkey is captured in the wild and transported to a zoo. During the journey the monkey begins to learn what it is to be human from a group of drunken sailors. He learns how to drink and finally how to speak a single word, “hello”. Red is given the option of the zoo or vaudeville, he chooses vaudeville. He engages tutors to teach him what it is to be a man. Finally achieving his goal he is called on by the great minds of the day to present a report to the Academy. During his report Red holds a mirror up to society and generally finds that humans are short on humanity.

Red’s main objective in becoming human is to find a ‘way out’ from the cage that he is in but when he does he realises that freedom is an illusion and all he has done is swapped one cage for another.

From the moment Kathryn Hunter takes the stage and makes her opening bows she gently takes us, the audience, in and carries us through the transformation of monkey to man. Dressed in a Charlie Chaplin style tail coat and bowler Ms. Hunter uses her beautiful voice and pliable body to convince us that you can take the monkey out of the jungle but you can never take the beast out of man.

This is a tight, well paced, beautifully acted piece of theatre that deserves a successful run.

‘The Wonderful World of Dissocia’

Written by Anthony Neilson for the Edinburgh International Festival, 'Dissocia' provides another view into the mind of man or in this case woman; Lisa has stopped taking her tablets, Lisa is in Dissocia, a world in search of a Queen. Lisa has lost an hour of her life.

Lisa has fallen through the looking glass.

This may very well be a good play. I couldn’t tell.

This entire production, directed, by Marion Potts, seems to have been directed with the intention of cutting out almost one third of the audience. The first Act in particular was played almost entirely to stage left.

The first Act is spent in Dissocia a world at war with the ‘Black Dog King’, a world where ‘scape’ goats are literally goats, a world where mad Hot Dog vendors and ‘in’ security guards live, a world where the Lost Property Office has in fact been lost.

To add insult to injury the second Act has the floor raised to create a lowered roof, (I know it’s confusing), however it brilliantly achieves the result that what little I could see of the actor’s was now even further diminished until finally I gave up and just sat shivering under the air conditioning vent.

The second Act is spent in the real world where days pass by in a blur of pills and sleep. Lights come on, lights go off to signify the passing of time; at least eight times the lights came on and the lights went off.

The costumes are colourful and garish, they looked great, well at least the back of the costumes looked great (Tess Schofield), the sound great, the lighting in the first Act great and the set great but gee it would have been good to see the Actor’s.

Lisa has lost an hour of her life – I have lost two hours of mine.

That's Mr. Cross to You

Dear Darius or Selena,

I realise you have a job to do and that you’re just trying to create a safe and warm environment for me but the reason I’ve called you is because I have a problem with my Internet connection, mobile phone, cable, bank account or, more likely, all of the above. I haven’t called you to ask you over for dinner or out to a movie. I’m not enquiring as to the health or well being of your family, I have a problem that needs fixing, nothing more, nothing less.

I know this may seem harsh but I really don’t want to be your ‘bestest friend forever’, or even for the next fifteen minutes, what I want is for you to attend to and fix my problem.

Yes I am upset, because I had to press button two, three times, the 'hash' button four times and finally button one, twice, then listen to ten minutes of Andre Rieu, just to get this far and I did get upset that my call did not seem to progress in the line as quickly as I was led to believe. Yes of course I did mind holding but no, in the spirit of fair play, I don’t mind this phone call being recorded for coaching purposes.

However, there’s one thing that really does irritate me and that’s being asked by you, someone I’ve never met and in all probability never will, if you can call me by my first name. My name, until we have been formally introduced by a close mutual friend, (no Facebook friends do not count), and known each other for a much longer period of time, is Mr. Cross. I realise I’m older than you, grumpier than you and probably not as computer literate as you, however I have reached a stage in my life where I would like to be called ‘Mr. Cross”, and not ‘Peter’, by a twenty something who lives in Melbourne, Manilla or Macau; call me old fashioned. No, I didn’t mean that literally.

Please do not take this personally; it’s not meant as an insult. I know the chances of us ever speaking again are very limited so let’s not pretend there is any real connection between us. Oh I’m sure I will have to phone this number again and again and again and each time I will speak to a new and possibly chirpier Darius/Damian or Selena/ Serena but just for now, for the next few minutes that we’re together let’s pretend we’re not equals, let’s pretend you’re here to serve me, not in any inappropriate ‘master/slave’ kind of way either but rather as a customer and ‘retail facilitator’.

No I’m not meaning to be rude, truly I’m not.

Hello, hello … hello Darius ... Selena ... are you still there … don’t you dare hang up on me …?

Give Me Chaos Give Me Joy

A while ago I wrote a tongue in cheek piece for The Sydney Morning Herald called “I Hate Theatre”, which of course I clearly don’t. I love theatre; theatre at its very best can be the catalyst for great changes within our society. It can open up our minds, it can expand our consciousness and it can allow us to be transported away from our safe cosy world and explore other possibilities. Think of ‘Angels in America’ or ‘The Crucible’ or ‘Oh, What a Lovely War’. Even at its worst it will create discussion and provoke critical thought. All theatre will provoke some kind of emotive response.

Not all theatre needs to be a gut wrenching emotional roller coaster that leaves you an exhausted emotional basket case at the end of it. Some theatre can achieve it’s purpose in a much more gentle and surprising way. Theatre, today, is everywhere from proscenium arches to pubs, from stage to street and from arenas to alleyways. Theatre seems to be popping up in the most unusual places and when you least expect it.

As our lives become busier and more hectic we risk becoming more distant and isolated from each other, any sense of the ridiculousness of life and the things that once upon a time tickled our fancy until we cried tears of pure joy is removed and we become grim faced frowners who rush, head down, from home to office to gym to home. Every now and then we need to be taken out of the dull reality we surround ourselves with on a day to day basis. This is where this new version of spontaneous theatre has found a welcome niche and made us stop and smile, groups of actors, artists and everyday citizens are coming together to perform seemingly impromptu pieces in everyday situations.

In New York a group called ‘Improv Everywhere’ organise mini productions and places them in unusual and unexpected venues. They bring colour, light, comedy and spontaneity to alleviate the very humdrum day to day existence that so many of us fight through. Their reason for being is simple, they “cause chaos and joy in public places”. They have organised large groups of people to meet complete strangers at JFK Airport, performed musicals in a food court and in Grand Central Station, froze time for five minutes to the confusion of commuters.


In Antwerp, Belgium, another group decided that they should perform a number from 'The Sound of Music' in the main railway terminal of the city. Can you imagine the Austrians after a long hard day at the bank trying to catch their evening train home being confronted by a hundred citizens dancing to ‘Lets Start at the Very Beginning’ as Julie Andrews serenades them in English.




The internet has spread these performance pieces across the globe and more groups have been formed in some of the strangest of places. In 2008, in Russia, ‘Improv Everywhere’ were invited to collaborate with a local group and organise a ‘Sleep In’ at a furniture shop. Their mission was to enter the shop, pick various pieces of furniture, a couch or a chair and sleep. This caused no end of consternation of the sales woman until finally she called the Police and the performers were moved on ... after the organiser’s names and addresses were taken down. The Police didn’t charge them with any thing because they couldn’t clearly define what crime, if any, had taken place, which is just as well because I am sure that the Russian Police are not known for their sense of humour. It must have taken great courage for these people to do what they did.

Funnily enough when some of these events were tried in Sydney good old fashioned narrow mindedness raised its ugly head. A mass drawing of ‘Valentines Day Hearts’ at Taylor Square, Darlinghurst, where hundreds of people young and old, gay and straight, gathered on Valentines Day 2008 and with coloured chalk drew hearts and left messages of love on the pavement. In Sydney a city that prides itself on being progressive, enlightened and open to new things our city council responded promptly with street cleaners and hoses, within 12 hours they had erased all the evidence.

Don’t we all need a little chaos and joy in our life at some time ... especially when we least expect it?