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Il Pizzaiolo

How do you write about food? Kind of like writing about jazz. Maybe it's the notes you don't hear that make all the difference.

Here's the back story. I've been to this place a couple of times before, and I like their wares. Being habitually lazy, I like anywhere that I can walk to without much effort. To say that the guy who runs it, Frank, knows his stuff is the acme of understatement. They recently expanded to the shop next door in this mini-strip around the corner from where I live. My fridge died (it's under warranty, although Hisense seem to want to doubt this notion, going out of their way to suggest that February 2013 to March 2014 is somehow more than three years...) and as someone who seems to have developed an aversion to wasting food, I'm taking the opportunity to eat out more.

The specialty of the house, their main board of fare, is this specific type of pizza from Naples. Frank has, according to his website and the large-wattage font printing on the restaurant walls, gained accreditation of the VPN Association - the Association of Vera Pizza Napoletana, or the Association of True Neapolitan Pizza. The dishes are basically prepared from scratch, and depending on where you sit, right in front of you. When laid out, festooned with white or red sauce and toppings, they're then cooked for 90 seconds at 425 degrees in a proper wood fired pizza oven right next to where they're prepared. According to their website, and their wall, '...when cooked, it should be thin, tender and fragrant.' I can tell you, it is.

I went in there on a Sunday night - the first Sunday they were open. Having gone their previously, the place had some seating restrictions that required booking. Since their expansion, such restrictions are no longer required, although with enough good notices the place should be packed and pumping on Friday and Saturday nights.

Main dishes comprise of 12 tomato-based options, and eight 'bianci' options - the white base. Additionally, they have a small but inviting antipasto menu ($6-$8, a platter for two @ $25), and an authentic Italian selection of deserts ($6-$12). Dolci, they call them, said the WASP from the suburbs. Tiramisu, which is probably the greatest thing in the history of the world, is available here, and theirs will either restore your faith in the greatness of humanity, or make you believe in Jesus. Dollar each way.

Not wanting to make an event out of it, just wanting the simple feed, I had the Salsicia. This was san marzano tomatoes, mozzarella, spicy pork sausage, roasted peppers, potatoes, fresh chilli, and a side of fresh chilli oil. It was the size of an old-timey 12" vinyl record, and was a very satisfying feed at an entirely reasonable $22. Dining alone (cue sad music) was taken care of very quickly (it was early in the evening on a Sunday as noted). It's bursting with flavour; the chilli isn't overpowering. The combination of flavours and textures is pleasing and the sausage is used enough, yet sparingly to not overpower the other toppings. They have a gluten free option, but I'm not one to ask about these things.

As dining experiences go, it's one of the more pleasant and voluminous assaults on all the senses. Well-apportioned, comfortable, tastes great, smells appealing and with very friendly, cordial staff. Wine selection is good and the Shiraz went down a treat.

The marketplace is flooded with franchise outlets; mass-produced to the point of them becoming generic. Should you not want to eat your pizza with a side order of Pink Floyd while sitting in a bean bag, this is probably more to your liking.

163 Darebin Rd, Thornbury 3071
Wednesday to Sunday: 5:30pm - 10:30pm (Friday lunch: 11:30am - 3:30pm); Sunday 11:30am - 10:30pm.

Dine in and take away. Fully licensed with a boutique selection of wines and Italian aperitifs, digestive and beers. No BYO. I paid full price and no, they're not paying me to write this.

Memo from ALP Publicity, re: Tanya Plibersek

The following memo was found next to a severed hand, in a dumpster, behind ALP headquarters in Sussex St, Sydney.

FROM: Barry Shank, ALP Publicity
TO: All staff
RE: Tanya Plibersek; Sunday Life

Comrades,

First of all, well bloody done!

I knew that when Pickles the Policy Monkey flung his breakfast at a picture of Tanya, thus signalling her as the party’s Next Big Thing™, we were onto a winner. The choice of Sunday Life was a good one as well – you can take the candidate, and introduce her to a mostly female audience in a laid back weekend supplement. That way she doesn’t have to actually, you know, ‘speak’ with any authority about matters of substance, policy and the like. We all know that the ladies aren’t big on substance (but we also know that Tanya is well versed on her portfolio and any number of policy issues; but that’s neither here nor there).

And, good choice, Pickles on Sunday Life. It’s a good thing we did a dry run ten years ago with Julia in the same magazine (Good Weekend, same-ish), basically the same story so we could make the mistakes and learn from them (learning from your mistakes is, granted, a new policy drive in the ALP). We do what we tried with Julia: sound the ominous warning of a hip young(ish) female as a rising star in the ALP. But unlike Julia, we show the ladies of the nation that Tanya is a married mother of three, ergo a breeder (and not ‘purposefully barren’ or suspiciously linked to a ‘male hairdresser’), and there’s not an empty fruit bowl in sight – quite the contrary: as part of the whole ‘you CAN have it all’ approach we’re compelled/conditioned to make about women in politics or business, we were cunning enough to have Sunday Life frame the whole thing as ‘Tanya-as-mum-on-the-go’. Open the whole thing with Tanya making her own mayonnaise. Nice touch!

I know that while this may have come across as a kind of shaming and bullying, comparable to one that Daily Life reported on recently, but that’s one of the licks we’re going to have to take. It’s not about what she has to contribute, policy wise, it’s the small miracle of how she manages to raise three smiling kids, look stylish in whatever outfit the stylist at Sunday Life set up for her, and maintain the public image of deputy Labor leader. Sure, nobody ever profiles a man in power and asks him how he manages it, coz we just assume he has a wife, right? Moot point. Tanya’s got kids, AND a job, AND looks great on Q&A, AND makes her own mayonnaise. Isn’t she clever???

We’ve learned the hard way (boy, have we!) about what we expect from lady politicians, and how the people of Australia (including the women) respond to them. But this Sunday Life profile really threw women voters the double blind: it showed them a source of inspiration minus anything of policy substance, and simultaneously chided them for being listless, unambitious tarts for not achieving the same level of career success and domestic stability. Also, that photo? Awesome. You might as well have taken it for a toothpaste commercial. They’re so white they’re almost blue.

Capital effort, people. Now, if you need me I’ll be with the rest of the chaps making decisions.

The Liberated Luddite

A recently aired episode of Parks and Recreation featured recalcitrant neo-Luddite Ron Swanson in a tirade against social media, and in an attempt to get ‘off the grid’ go to extreme lengths to remove his identity from as much media as possible. Eventually, he relented and got a mobile phone, but a simple handset that clipped onto his belt. His polar opposite Tom Haverford noted the age of Ron’s phone, and after suggesting that not only did it look like the original phone from Wall Street, but the original phone itself, exclaimed "It’s got buttons! Ewwwww!"

I recently found myself in need of a new phone, after being the owner of an iPhone3 for about four years. As far as units go, it was intriguing and fun at first, in that it combined the internet, an iPod and a phone in one, and all those ridiculous apps were worth (literally) minutes of amusement (among my collection included a Samuel L Jackson sound board, and something called ‘Fart Piano’). Eventually, the technology superseded the device and most of the apps stopped working, the internet browser slowed to a crawl and it was just a chunky piece of glass I carried with me at every moment. One day, gravity got the better of it and the screen shattered; I took this as a cue to upgrade. Without being bowled over by what was on offer, and quite frankly offended by some of the charges and fees of my (major brand name) provider, I flew into a fit of technological indignation, purchased the cheapest handset available and went home.

The handset I bought makes phone calls and sends texts; it has an attachment that allows you to listen to FM radio. The camera takes pictures, but the phone doesn’t allow you to look at them. The internet browser is slow and doesn’t seem to work on 99% of websites. The available apps are archaic and range from ‘charming’ to ‘pointless’. Its keypad even has buttons. Ewwww.

As a direct result of this, I don’t have the internet with me on public transport or when having drinks with friends. I have to engage with people one-on-one. I have to entertain myself with other things – books, music, my own thoughts (egad). When in company, I enjoy the actual company of others. Smart phones have brought the internet to everyone’s fingertips at any time of the day or night. And now that I no longer have the internet, I am neither distracted by, nor seeking distraction by it (we should remember that strangely enough there is nothing in this world more distracting than every piece of information in the world, ever.)

The rate at which people are compelled to Tweet and Instagram, update their Facebook statuses and follow the activities of their ‘friends’ (real or otherwise) is something that doesn’t seem odd until the moment you step back and see others do it when your technological restraints prevent you from doing the same. If someone is enjoying an apple and wants to share that with the universe, that’s one thing, but ‘Eating an apple, feeling healthy LOL’ sent into the ether isn’t really for anyone but the person sending it. It might as well say ‘Validate me! Say you like me by acknowledging my words and actions!’

Full disclosure: I Tweet, but mostly it’s my attempt at one-liners. I share links to articles I think worthy of others’ reading. But I’ve also been a first hand witness to the socially crippling effects that a compulsive Tweeter experiences. One friend had a close to clinical compulsion to check his phone if anyone nearby checked theirs; a former girlfriend woke to, and went to sleep with Twitter close at hand and had the perplexing habit of Tweeting close to every thought, including moments of intimacy between the two of us. This was flattering at first, although it’s quite disturbing with a bit of hindsight. If you start or end your day with a cordial message to Twitter in general, chances are that you and I are vastly different people, indeed.

And yes, I know that there's something askew in ranting against social media, and using social media to do it, as well as promote it. I get that.

The fact remains that every moment need not be Tweeted; every meal need not be Instagrammed. You may be socially or emotionally isolated, and the internet might be your only avenue for human connection. Such people are in an infinitesimal minority. I’ve embraced the idea of comfortably enjoying silences with friends and companions, and my life needn’t be filled with 140-character ramblings of virtual strangers and celebrities. I now look at a restaurant table full of people focussed on the screens of their phones as a kind of museum exhibit, and it’s all I can do to say, "Look, children… in my day, we used to speak to each other."

Taking a retroactive step in this regard really is liberating. I’ve read so many more things of substance, like … novels. A recent holiday saw me – heaven forbid – leaving my phone at home. Not only did I have to make my own entertainment, I was at 0% risk of having ‘bill shock’ when I returned, having not mistakenly thought that a photograph of a Fijian sunset was something my Facebook friends desperately needed to see then and there (you learn this lesson the hard way, trust me).

Losing my smart phone has set me free. I’m a better person for it. I can heartily recommend the experience.

Portrait of the Artist as a Bearded Man

I recently completed a run as the coach, Laurie, in a production of David Williamson’s The Club. This was my fifth time at the acting trough.

Part I: Thezzing Out

Acting was never something I thought about doing, not seriously at least. Not as a career – I grew up in Perth and despite the allure of the spotlight garnered from watching movies at every opportunity, there aren’t that many avenues over there to make a solid career out of it. Sure, Heath Ledger did, so does Judy Davis and Sam Worthington. But my own reservations about doing such a thing were based in a number of factors, not being formally trained or particularly talented being among them. I graduated with journalism qualifications, and had a job to do. Then I became a school teacher and the less I had to do outside of work hours, the better. Then there’s the factor of the physical size. Among actors, especially on screen, you don’t see many that have my … dimensions. To the best of my understanding, there’s Will Smith, Tim Robbins, Vince Vaughn and Clint Eastwood who stretch past six feet tall. I’m 6’7” (which is a flat 200cm), not in any way of an athletic build, and anyone who has seen me on stage or among other actors (other people, for that matter, in any circumstance) knows I stick out like dogs balls out there. James Cromwell is apparently 6’7”, Brad Garrett is 6’8”. Anyhow, bit of a thing, a sore point. I’ve watched Inside the Actors Studio enough to know that by and large, actors have invariably (a) come from broken homes, or are the product of divorce; and (b) are shorter in stature, so it seems that the lure of the big screen, or just performing is a means by which to make themselves seem, look, feel bigger than they are. They are, for the most part, mentally unbalanced to one degree or another. Why wouldn’t they be? I mean, why would anyone on stage, screen, behind a microphone or on a professional sports arena be doing it for any other reason than saying, ‘Mummy, Daddy, look! I’m doing it!’

My parents have been happily married for nigh-on 44 years, and I don’t particularly need to feel any bigger. So I have them to blame for my emotionally stable upbringing and genetics, and have no real yearning for mass acceptance. Thanks, folks.

I had never acted before 2007. I had a walk on, non-speaking part in a high school production of Lady Windermere’s Fan. That was a few years back – 1989 to be precise. Actually speaking on stage is a different thing. I was living in Hong Kong at the time, and one drunken night (of which there were many) I got to chatting with Wendy Herbert, who was staging a production of Don’s Party. I was offered a role (she was either possessed of instinct, desperation, or both).

‘I’ve never acted before,’ I slurred, throwing back more red wine.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she told me. ‘I feel like you’ve got enough personality and stage presence to pull it off.’

Wendy might not have said precisely that, as it was Chinese New Year and I was under the influence. It was an interesting SMS to get the next morning telling me that a script was waiting for me. Script? What scri… oh Hell. We met, I got the script, and Wendy promised that at the very least, somehow I’d get laid (and she wasn’t lying either … ahem).

The thing that I’ve found with acting is that it’s not the actual performance that matters the most to me, it’s the process of figuring it out. It’s been my experience five times now that you walk into your first rehearsal with one idea in mind about how your character will speak and act, and after weeks of rehearsing, it’s entirely a different matter.

We did six weeks’ rehearsal, at least three times a week on Don’s Party and performed it all of five times leading up to a Saturday night. I thought I would be a nervous wreck going out there. But it was just like rehearsal, except warmer, and there was laughter when I said something that was apparently funny. Didn’t happen that much, but when it did… I tells ya, the first time was like that first shot of heroin (so I’m told). As an experience, it was totally worth it. I’ve made lifelong friends from that show.

Some time passed. I auditioned for a HK production of Secret Bridesmaids’ Business and didn’t get the one male role in the show; it was the first rejection I got. To hell with am-dram, I thought. Humbug. Their loss. I moved back to Melbourne (not because of that, just as it happens) and about a year later auditioned for a role in Nuts, in the part that Richard Dreyfuss played on screen. Because, I’m totally right for the part of a middle aged New York Jewish lawyer (I can do the accent, no problem, but…) didn’t get it.

The next one, I did. It was a production of Aaron Sorkin’s A Few Good Men, and while I went for the Tom Cruise part, I got the Kiefer Sutherland part and thought, aha... that’s the stuff. A shorn head, southern drawl and a pair of unflattering glasses, and I was in that for good and all. Quoting scripture, being a royal prick. It was great; an immeasurable amount of fun. Didn’t matter that a full house meant 65 people, it was the doing it (heh) that mattered. It got reviewed, and the critic said I was ‘…also effective.’ Kudos!

I also got nominated for an award, but didn’t win. It’s not about the awards, man.

I went for another lead, and got another supporting part in The Philadelphia Story (I had to tell 80% of people that it wasn’t the Tom Hanks AIDS drama). When you do plays in a place like Heidelberg, you end up performing in front of a decent sized crowd in a big, spacious theatre. I’ve seen ‘professional’ productions at the MTC done in smaller spaces, with actors endowed with far less impressive range, and unable to properly master the standard American accent, than what I’ve seen (and for that matter, been a part of) in community theatre. She who had the lead in The Philadelphia Story (Aimee Sanderson) is an untapped gem; as talented an actor as any you’ll see on local stages or TV screens. But it’s non-professional, so you don’t get a look in to the professional world. Therein lies part of the problem – you could be as talented as the day is long, but it don’t add up to a hill of beans if it’s a community theatre production. It’s a kind of artistic fascism.

I liked the opportunity to do new and different things, so auditioned for the lead in Aaron Sorkin’s The Farnsworth Invention in early 2011. And, because it wasn’t the right fit for me, I got offered five supporting roles instead. I wasn’t all that keen to take them on, and I said to the director, Shane Ryan, that it didn’t seem plausible that there would be five people in different points through the play’s narrative that looked like me (‘… a mobile flat,’ per Keith Hutton). But Shane wasn’t concerned about that, and we got on with it. A fine, complex, dense piece of work is Farnsworth. It really has no business being on stage (the scope suggests a movie treatment), but because it’s Sorkin, it somehow works. But taking on five characters without any real personality or development, rehearsing over six weeks, then performing over three with only Monday nights off took its toll. Steve Shinkfield (rightly) got the lead in that, and played it with commensurate skill, which is what you would expect from someone of his extensive credits and talents. It was the night of the final dress rehearsal that I had a moment of clarity and realised I wasn’t cut out for the stage. All that effort, the head cold that went through the whole cast and despite the quality of the production, it wasn’t that enjoyable experience as far as acting goes. Exhausting, for that matter. It dawned on me then that if you want the good parts, the meaty ones, you had to do the hard yards. Build up a cache of performances in small roles, supporting ones, bit parts over time and get enough credo to take on the mighty lead role. You don’t just walk off the street and play Stanley Kowalski.

I hung up my boots after Farnsworth’s final curtain. I decided that my creative impulses could be sated in other areas, and that the hard yards requisite of the substantial roles were beyond my grasp, as getting to these rehearsals tended to take more time than it should have. I live in the inner northern suburbs, and a vast majority of these theatre companies … aren’t. Brighton, Mordialloc, Frankston, Malvern, Williamstown… not as convenient as one might hope. Three rehearsals a week for six weeks, then three weeks of performance; it’s like a second full-time job for which you don’t get paid. And I haven’t the first clue if I’m good or not, I just take other people’s word for it. I can’t bear the notion of watching myself perform. All the glimpses of video footage I’ve seen of myself on stage have made me want to hurl (at the very least) abuse, or at worst, food at the screen.

STAND UP STRAIGHT! STOP BEING A FOOT TALLER THAN EVERYONE ELSE! STOP SPEAKING SO QUICKLY! STOP BEING RUBBISH!

All a bit much, although not uncommon, I’ve read. Johnny Depp has never seen one of his movies. Can’t bear the thought of seeing himself on screen. So it’s me & Johnny Depp.

Two years passed before I even contemplated the idea of ‘coming out of retirement’, and that itself is the kind of preposterously arrogant twaddle that such enterprises instil in me. Keith Hutton, who was someone else who played five parts in Farnsworth was directing The Club. It’s a great play, got turned into a great film, and the idea of doing it was very alluring. We were both at Shane Ryan’s housewarming, and Keith had been trawling social media for male actors to be in this play for months. I had flirted with the idea, but it was going to be performed in some godforsaken place called Clayton, and I hadn’t the first clue if it was even a real suburb.

I got to talking to Keith. I said, not too subtly, that if I was to choose a role in the play, it’d be Laurie, the coach. Straight-faced, Keith looked at me and said, ‘It’s yours if you want it. I’ll cast you right now.’

I said, foretelling a line from the script, ‘I’ll think about it.’

I walked upstairs to get more beer. Talked about it with Shane, was encouraged to do it. I mean, how often do you get offered something like that based on trust? I’d been having a rough trot of it, emotionally. I could use a distraction, and playing the lead in a two-act play is nothing if not distracting. I went back downstairs, shook Keith’s hand and that was it.

Then the real pressure started.

Portrait of the Artist as a Bearded Man (2/2)

Part II: Yelling on Cue

The Encore Theatre Company performs its plays at the Clayton Community Centre, which has a 135-seat theatrette attached to a library, a gym, a swimming pool and is opposite the electoral office of Simon Crean, funnily enough. As a performance space, it’s aces, but you don’t rehearse there. The rehearsal space is a converted indoor basketball court a short drive away; uninsulated and as a result, creates an atmosphere akin to rehearsing in a meat locker. Your best work doesn’t come out when you’re trying to remember your lines, all the while trying to keep the blood circulating in your feet to prevent your frostbitten toes falling off.

The day Keith held open auditions back in May, I showed up to read with the chaps who wanted parts. I was pre-cast, so I had nothing to worry about, except right from the word go I was convinced I was shithouse at it. Right from the start I was thinking, they’re all better at this than me. They’ll resent me for being pre-cast when I’m not that good. As you might gather, I set myself a high water mark right off the bat. That first audition was slick, fast, small and complete within minutes. Tim Byron as Jock (playing older), Greg Barison as Gerry (playing sleazy). Tim’s not been at this for long, but OWNS this play. Greg’s never auditioned for anything before, just made a habit out of doing pantomimes and having scripts sent to him. Keith’s got Geoff Arnold lined up for Ted, who was finishing up August: Osage County – doing what a lot of folks do, which is jump out of one production and dive right into the next one. Geoff’s literally done more plays than he can remember, and is an example of better living through chemistry. Scott Broadfoot as Geoff, who shows up with professional screen credits. He’s been on the tele (Neighbours, Underbelly and whatnot). He has an agent and everything. Pressure. Matthew Coote in the thankless role of Danny, who shows up in the thing three times and spends most of the play backstage. He’s also got an agent and just landed a role in a film. So every other person involved in this play has more experience than me. More pressure.

Learning lines is tough. It’s only recently – after several months – that I’ve picked up a book that isn’t the script. Every train journey, small space at work, lying on the couch at home or waiting for friends to arrive at the pub had me going over the lines. Hoping that rote learning will get the job done. I speak 279 lines of dialogue in this play, which covers a total of 14 pages, and is 4563 words. Some of them are single word lines, like ‘Yes!’, or ‘Rubbish!’ Then there are more challenging bits, like ‘…despite what your economics books tell you, I’m not entirely convinced that pragmatism’s absolutely irreversible.’ Because people say things like that all the time. There are moments in rehearsal when you think you’ve got it down, and you don’t, and you worry that you’ll never remember it all. But you do. Somehow. I was convinced several times that Keith would have to take me aside very quietly and gently let me off the hook for being the crappy weight that would sink this vessel, but it never happened. There’s a moment where something snaps, or clicks, and it’s just embedded there. You block your scenes, you do small sections of acts first, then whole acts, then the whole thing. You make do with what you have, you try to build on your performance. As part of my preparation, I look in the mirror and give line readings, and hope that the performance I give is the performance I would want to see, as a viewer, nee, a critic.

The company is staffed by retirees who serve as volunteers, and the set was constructed in an afternoon by what looked to be the touring company of Dad’s Army. We’ve had some publicity in some local papers, and I was photographed with four of the other actors, with a caption that identified me as ‘Matt Revin’, for some unimaginable reason. They provide Assorted Cream biscuits for the actors, which is a nice touch.

I have to spend most of the play in a bad mood. I’m basically playing Mick Malthouse here, but a guy in his mid 40s, so to subjugate my youthful countenance, I grew a beard. One, it’s set in the 1970s and it’s my recollection that everyone had some kind of facial hair in that era. And, two, I just turned 38 and I don’t look 38 (I drink lots of water and haven’t fathered any children). Needing to look older than 38, the beard makes me look at least ten years older than I usually do.

Being in a foul mood comes pretty easy to me, I have to admit, but there are moments when I have to fly into a volcanic rage. One scene in particular. I hate doing that scene. Hate it. Scott’s a really talented, professionally trained actor and he has this way of doing a 1000 yard stare that would make a lamp post feel uncomfortable, and when I’m yelling – all but screaming at him – I feel just awful. He’s yelling at me. Why is he angry at me? We were just joking back stage. I’m yelling at him and I don’t want to. I don’t hate him at all. So this scene has me reach a crescendo where I yell at him about how unless he improves his attitude, I’ll drop him to the reserves for the rest of his career. I literally (proper use of the term) cannot yell louder or with more anger and venom than I do. And it’s not naturally a go-to response for me. I’m seldom that angry. I do surly well, but not explosive. Each and every time I do it, which took a long time to get to what it ended up being on stage, it’s exhausting, and rips my vocal chords apart. I speak like Barry White for a solid two hours after final curtain and am mentally frazzled. So it’s a sweet relief that I can sit down and just all-but chill for the remainder of the play, until I have to yell at Greg/Gerry about what an oily little weasel he is. I get to drink on stage at this point (iced tea in a scotch bottle) and I think if I had to do anything more than what I do, it’d all be a bit much.

We did 11 performances. Some performances were better than others, some audiences were better than others. Second to last one was an ill-conceived Saturday matinee where the audience outnumbered the cast by two people. Disheartening to say the least. On the other hand, one earlier performance had friends of mine giggling every time I called someone a turd, and cheered when I said ‘Bullshit!’, because apparently they thought they were at a pantomime.

The thing with this business is, you don’t do it with the hope of scaling the heights of fame, being discovered and then being cast in a film which gets you representation at William Morris; the next thing you know, you’re Eric Bana or Russell Crowe or Cate Blanchett or someone else. It is, for the lack of a better word, a hobby. A pastime. You’ll invariably be performing for a small crowd of octogenarians who’re dozy after a steady diet of Mogadon sandwiches and lamingtons, and the only reward you’ll get out of it is the satisfaction of a job well done. Once you get your mind around the fact that you’re not getting paid for it, it’s a most pleasant way to spend some time. It’s also the equivalent of what the Brits call ‘rep’, learning the craft in real situations, giving it professional attention and devotion. The only thing that differentiates what’s done on community stages as opposed to professional ones is the money. The Club was directed by someone who has been acting for 45 years and done in excess of 150 shows, but nobody with any connections to professional theatre shows up. Their loss.

I’ve been through some … stuff this past year. Had a lot of thinking to do, a lot of … stuff to process. The thing about being on stage is that when you’re out there, there’s a surge of adrenaline and there is nothing outside that scene that permeates. The disappointments of your life, the traumas and stresses don’t so much evaporate as disappear altogether and you’re nothing more than that guy in that situation, with that beard, and your motivation is nothing more than getting it done, and well. You have to stay on your toes in case someone in the cast takes a mid-play elocution safari or just forgets their lines. It’s happened more than once. I’ve delivered the wrong lines; Geoff sometimes looks at you in a way that suggests, ‘Well, I can’t find what I need right now, you have a go!’, and in our second Sunday matinee, Tim did a mid-show edit by accidentally dropping an entire page of dialogue from his performance. The thing is, nobody in the audience notices and everyone on stage thinks (in hindsight) that it’s hilarious. We never got it perfect. But it’s the arts: is there a perfect to be got?

We’ve got some good feedback. People who saw the thing liked it and seemed to get value for money. A man who looked about 103 told me that he thought the first act was boring, but the second act lifted enough that he enjoyed himself. My advice to him was to register his grievances with David Williamson, not me. Another lady told me I was ‘… so very noble.’

That’s all very rewarding to know, but the thing is, I’m doing this for me, and it’s been great to know that I can do justice to a great part in a great play. Creatively, it’s hit all the right notes in me. I’ll not do another one for at least a year or so, but for this one I’ve felt I’ve added something, been a part of something good. I’ve felt a sense of camaraderie, felt a sense of responsibility, engaged in a rewarding routine and helped to build something good.

So, no cigar-chomping talent agent spotted me. So, Martin Scorsese wasn’t in the crowd. So what? Their loss. I had fun.

An Open Letter to the Prime Minister of Australia

Dear Prime Minister,

I thought I’d reach out to you, as there’s been some clearly bone-headed insanity taking place over the past couple of weeks (or is it months and years?) that has reduced the political debate and news media in this country to a shambles.

I’ve had some quandaries with the decisions you and your government have made over the last three years; like I had some problems with your predecessor’s government (which you were a part of), and infinite problems with the Howard government. All of these problems and counter-points were based on policy decisions and politics, and none of them had anything to do with anyone’s gender or bedroom antics. Aside from anything else, ew. Seriously. Ew.

Your government has made some decisions that bothered me. I’ve disagreed as to the right way to solve certain problems, addressed various grievances and suggested alternatives. As a remorseless, unreconstructed Whitlamite, I’m more than a tad discouraged by the direction Labor has gone in the past few years; at a book signing, I asked Mungo McCallum why he thought the ALP had swung so severely to the right – he countered that they (you) hadn’t, they’d just swung severely to the bottom. Seeking out the approval of the lowest common denominator. Dirty pool, Ms Gillard.

I’ve had problems with your personal style of politics, the manner by which you got to be Prime Minister, your ‘captain’s pick’ of someone grossly unqualified to be in the Senate, the mishandling of the Slipper and Thomson matters, the non-starter that was media reform, and the fact that your big tentpole speech in the House about misogyny directed at Tony Abbott was heralded as some kind of feminist milestone, which it would have been in my eyes as well had you not crossed the floor to vote with him about half an hour later. Your values and principles are really only worth something if you exercise them when it’s inconvenient. But it’s a moot point.

Your feminist credentials haven’t really impressed me that much (said the white middle class, middle aged straight man from the suburbs). I mean, it’s great that we have a female PM, but feminism – to me – suggests equality among all women, with men. And that’s all women, not just the ones that look best in photo ops. Equality under the law and society which should mean leading the charge for the rights of women who are gay and want to get married, women on a boat on the Indian Ocean currently seeking asylum, women in remote Aboriginal communities, or women who are single mothers and used to get more funding than what is in the NewStart allowance. And just on that whole gay marriage thing, can I ask you, how do you look Penny Wong in the eye and tell her that she can’t have equal rights under the law because of who she loves? Not cool. Gay marriage is really none of my business, and it seems like it’s none of yours either. But more on that later.

There was an episode of The West Wing where Sam Seaborn criticised a speech written about rich people and swimming pools, because it looked like it was written by a teenage girl. They have a lot of things to offer the world, but good writing isn’t one of them. Which brings me to the ‘men in blue ties’ speech. It was, to my ear, a bit of clumsy, poor speechwriting that smacked of a 14-year-old girl who had just read the Cliff Notes on The Female Eunuch. Speculation abounded about what motivated this clumsy, to my mind hackneyed bit of sputter shot gender warfare, and frustratingly I agreed with Julie Fuckin’ Bishop when she labelled it a desperate and condescending act of political sleight of hand.

But the media seemed to lap it up. I wasn’t buying it, especially since the forum for this speech, the launch of ‘Women For Gillard’ (the gender equivalent of ‘Christians For Jesus’) appeared to be a cynical exercise born of desperation. The class warfare thing didn’t cut it, so let’s play the gender card. Men in blue ties? Give me a break. Pass.

Then that Liberal fundraiser menu scandal happened. Now, on the surface, it looked to be just more unfunny nonsense, and I was on the verge of giving Mal Brough the benefit of the doubt on whether or not he knew about it. The restaurateur said he printed one out as a joke between him and his son, and it was then leaked to the media. I was thinking that it was dopey and unfunny, but not enough for you to get riled up about. I figured you’d just let it go through to the keeper, but you blew it up, adding fuel to the gender politics fire, which given what’s been going on recently seems like a fair enough choice. I’d have gone differently, as I wouldn’t want to give it credence and encourage like-minded reactionary twits to do something similar. I figured that Mal Brough probably didn’t know about it, because if he did and lied about it, that would make him close to the dumbest man in politics, and not even a Tory from Queensland can be that mentally deficient. I seem to have been proven wrong about this. Then that oxygen thief Joe Hockey seemed to revert back to his seven year old self and rationalised the menu joke by saying that you once called him fat. Truly head-slappingly stupid. I weep for the future of political discourse in this country.



Is it me or is the Australian news media like that dog in Up?

Oh, look, poor poll numbers! Speculation of an electoral wipe out! In-house scuttlebutt! Kevin Rudd on the loose!

SQUIRREL!

Gender politics! Sexism! Men in blue ties! Sexist menu joke! Howard Sattler!

Howard Goddamned Sattler. Prime Minister, as I illustrated before, and many times in various forums, I disagree with many of the things you’ve said and done. The gender thing was – to my mind – clumsy and unnecessarily polarising.

Then 6PR’s ‘turd that won’t flush’ asked you those questions about your domestic partner.

I would like to apologise to you, on behalf of Australian men. On behalf of men originally from Perth. On behalf of thinking primates. Under no circumstances would Howard Sattler have ever questioned Sonia McMahon’s sexuality, or the validity of John & Jannette Howard’s marriage. There is no way anyone, EVER would use the same kind of specious reasoning (hairdresser = gay) for a male political leader. I can’t imagine the Sattler/Jones/Mitchell/Hadley types saying to Tony Abbott, “Well, Mr Abbott, you’re Catholic. Are you a paedophile? It’s just that those kiddie fiddling priests were also Catholic, so, you know, it makes sense…”

I was wrong to assume that your take on gender politics was a cynical exercise or a strategic fake-out. I’m endlessly impressed with the fact that you didn’t just stare at him when he asked you that, and ask him “What the holy fuck did you just ask me?”. I would’ve punched that smarmy, reactionary hack right in his stupid fat head. Where I used to think the more prudent thing would have been to just brush that dirt off your shoulder, all of a sudden I’ve concluded that if you wanted to go militant separatist feminist and start spelling ‘wymyn’ thusly, then it makes perfect sense. Start a riot grrrl band and name roads and bridges after Andrea Dworkin. Anything you say and do on the subject of gender and sexism won’t register a peep out of me from here on in.

The minute I saw that clip, all I wanted to do was that hand gesture blackjack dealers make when they change shifts at the casino. I’m done.

Go to town. I hadn’t given a great deal of thought to voting for your party on September 14, but if this is the predominant mentality incarnate in what would be Tony Abbott’s Australia, then my vote’s with you.

So that’s it. Sorry about the language.

Sincerely,

Matt Reddin, chap.