New Review from Indy Fringe – Indy Fringe Theatre Habit

“Please Don’t Use My Flannel for That: A Memoir” – Phoenix Theatre, sponsored by Storytelling Arts of Indiana.

The Act – Australian writer/stand-up comedian Lou Sanz gives “a reading” from her memoir-in-progress.  The chapter she shares is about her selling a screenplay as a 19-year-old (I think) and coming to Hollywood from Melbourne to fulfill her dreams.  She has the most outrageously bad luck when she gets here – everything from falling in with a racist pimp she calls The Cowboy to falling in “love” with a heroin user/dish washer that she meets at Denny’s.

The Art – Lou speaks from beside or behind a music stand that holds her writing, but this show is so much more a crafted and polished performance piece than a mere reading.  For one thing, if Lou hasn’t memorized the whole thing I’d be surprised, she is that comfortable walking away from the stand and interacting with her audience.  Also, subtle but effective lighting choices, subtle incorporation of props such as eyeglasses and balled up pieces of paper, even Lou’s choice of what to wear (leopard print top over cute black shorts plus glittery purple eyeliner and red, red lipstick at the performance I saw) add layers of artistic polish to the show as well.  Her word choices and her story-shaping make for brilliant writing.  Her deadpan delivery and deliciously impeccable comic timing make for brilliant performance art.  I wish I could hear and see the next chapter in her memoir as well!

The Appeal – Beyond the basic appeal of excellence in literary and performance art, if you like your IndyFringe experience to have an international flavor, this show is filled with fascinating cross-cultural references.  Plus, there is the delight of Lou’s Australian accent. 

The Audience – I heard both men and women roaring with laughter at this show.  This show is definitely only for adults, and only for adults who are not easily offended by shocking language and content.  This show’s humor is sophisticated but it does include references to things like finger raping and dick-kicking, for example, never mind the occasional “f” word.

From the Indy Fringe Theatre Habit.

Final Australian Performance of ‘Please don’t use my flannel for that’

*FINAL AUSTRALIAN PERFORMANCE*

If you missed ‘Flannel’ in the Adelaide or Melbourne Fringe Festivals this year, this is your final boarding call.

PLEASE DON’T USE MY FLANNEL FOR THAT: A MEMOIR:
At the age of 18 Lou was invited to Hollywood to make a movie. Things didn’t quite go to plan. From living with a real life cowboy, to finding refuge in a halfway house on the run from the Australian Embassy, this is that story.

“From somewhere within the dark chasm that separates Carrie Bradshaw from Emily Bronte comes a voice that deserves our attention.” The Age

“Her material may come from the gutter, her text is Hemingway-clean.” The Age

“Captivating, quick-witted and darn right hilarious.” ExpressMedia

“Inspires a sort of guilty laughter, the kind you get from the kid with a bucket on its head, repeatedly bashing into walls.” ArtsHub

“Suave, smokey, deadpan…comedy.” The Age

Moosehead Award Recipient, 2009 Melbourne International Comedy Festival
Most Promising Debut, Comedy@Trades 2009 Melbourne International Comedy Festival
RAW National Finalist 2008

TICKETS AT THE DOOR: $20 / $15

Book at the special pre-sales price of $17, email: sanzscript@gmail.com

DOORS OPEN 7PM, SHOW START 7:30PM.

Sexy adventures with Cankle Lady

Coming home from a gig on Saturday night realising that if I managed to make it home by 9pm The Bill would be in full throttle and even with my comprehensive knowledge of back-story I’d struggle to keep up, I stood waiting for the illustrious No 19 tram. Not to worry, I wasn’t alone. I had the luck of keeping company with a couple of teenagers/burgeoning football team and when I say a couple I mean not enough to terrify me into a gang bang, but enough to have quite clearly justified their purchase of two slabs of Jim Bean & Coke.

Not that I’m a snob in the traditional sense, but yes I will admit, a couple of slabs of some sort of pale ale and these young men would have easily transformed in my eyes from just sex offenders to alleged sex offenders.

One of them spat in front of me or threw up (I’m finding it harder and harder to tell these days) before asking me how my night was, well that’s what I thought ‘…avin a good night…cat…apper…penis’ meant.

Having promised myself not to get herpes in this lifetime I stepped back from him and then watched as he tried to chase a car packed with ‘the ladies’ down Sydney Rd egged on by his friends in a way a dog might chase a car, a dog whose parents paid for it’s private school education.

I noticed a girl in the mix drinking a Red Bull with her hair pulled back into a sensible ponytail. She watched the idiots around her and for a moment I was reminded of a young me. One of the boys kept pulling her hooded sweat, trying to drag her over to him like a caveman but to her credit she spurned his advances as he tried to whisper something in her ear. She pushed him away.

‘No Tony, I’m not giving you a hand job.’

You go sister I thought as I smiled to myself.

‘Last time my hand cramped and I couldn’t text for like hours and you didn’t even cum, f**k that.’

How I yearned for those curious fumbling years…

Finally the tram arrived and we all climbed on board, the teenagers by now figuring that if they sat at the back of the tram they’d come across less like drunk dickheads and more like hip urban commuters. I moved to the front as I heard a conversation about ‘how to spot a tardo’ fade into the distance.

Deciding to stand for the next few stops, I noticed an older woman staring at me and found myself wondering for a brief moment if the No 19 was the tram of choice for lesbians to cruising away their Saturday night. I didn’t have to wait long for my answer as the woman came over to me.

‘You remind me a lot of myself when I was your age.’

Now I don’t know about you but I’ve never been into the idea of hooking up with people that look me, admitting though that I was yet to come across 5’3 curvy Latino type gentlemen who couldn’t grow a decent moustache, but hey, the night was young.

‘Um, thanks’ I replied to her, not that it was a compliment she’d paid me as I looked down at her cankles.

‘Back when I was your age I tried to kill myself, didn’t manage it mind you. Just ended up alone.’

My eyes drew away from her cankles and elasticised Susanne Gray pants and I suddenly realised how sad a complete stranger could make me feel.

I didn’t know what to say and my overwhelming curiosity to ask why she hadn’t kept trying was threatening to leap out of my mouth at any moment.

‘Um…I’m sure someone loves you.’ I offered.

‘Does someone love you?’ she asked.

Ouch.

‘My parents I think.’

‘Doesn’t count.’

‘Some of my friends?’

‘Doesn’t count.’

‘What, you mean like a boyfriend or something?’

‘I knew the touch of a man once, his name was Tom. Full of cock and confidence Tom was.’

‘What happened to Tom, did he die in the war or something?’

‘The war? I’m only 37, he was only 17.It was the love that dare not speak its name. Don’t be stupid. Died in the war. No, he just changed schools. It wasn’t meant to be.’

‘That’s a shame.’ I muttered, looking at this woman, this broken woman. Why had she been so unlucky? Would I have the same fate given I once admitted to a crush on the red head from Harry Potter?

‘If you don’t mind my saying your fringe makes you looks like a guard at a women’s prison.’

Oh, this must be why no one loved her.

I pulled the cord announcing my impending stop.

‘Ok, well you have a good night then.’

‘You don’t work in a woman’s prison do you?’

‘No.’

‘Would you like to?’

‘No’

‘Ok, no harm in asking.’ And with that she started up towards the back of the tram looking to acquaint herself with some of Jim Bean fuelled football team.

As I hoped off the tram I heard her turn to the girl I’d seen earlier.

‘You remind me of myself when I was your age.’

‘I’m not licking you out or nuffin’ the girl spat back at her.

You go sister I couldn’t help but smile to myself.

Open letter to Cleo/Cosmopolitan in an attempt to get my children’s stories published

Dear Cosmopolitan/ Cleo

I write to you with a solution to your recent drop in readership or as I like to call it ‘flickthroughship’. I am at present an unpublished writer of children’s fiction and as such I present to you an idea. Recent research has shown that girls as young as 7 are now hitting puberty.

This is where I come in. I have written a series of children’s stories, carefully aimed at attracting that elusive age 7-12 market.

I consider my stories, of which I’ve attached 2 samples, are the much needed bridge your publication so desperately needs in order to compete in the burgeoning tween/adolphile market of today.  Girls under the age of 12 are increasing maturity through their brand preferences. This creates the opportunity for us to provide young adults with a strong adult positioning.

Imagine a girl of 8 walking into a newsagency opening up your magazine eager to read a story of an urban Melbourne princess who has two gay suitors who through her find the love that dare not speak its name, now imagine that this same girl on finishing this story wondering how she might escape the same fate as the princess, she can flick threw to one of you articles, perhaps ‘Is It Me? How to stop disappointing your man in bed?’ or ‘Your just not that into him? Try harder, you’re over 30 now, remember?’

I believe in collaborating with me your publication will be well placed to corner the aforementioned pre pubescent audience and if I can be so bold, perhaps drag readership away from such publications as Frankie magazine, which in recent years have done nothing but indulge the fad of reading.

I leave you with these facts*:

40 per cent of 1st, 2nd or 3rd grade girls want to be thinner. 80 per cent of 10 year olds are worried in case they become fat. In another survey, 70 percent of 6th grade girls surveyed said that their concern about their weight, shape and diet started when they were aged 9-11.

In addition:

• Approximately one in five high school girls has been physically or sexually abused by a dating partner.
• Dating violence among their peers is reported by 54% of high school students.
• Nearly 80% of girls who have been victims of physical abuse in their dating relationships continue to date the abuser.
• Nearly 20% of teen girls who have been in a relationship said that their boyfriend had threatened violence or self-harm in the event of a break-up.
• Nearly 70% of young women who have been raped knew their rapist; the perpetrator was or had been a boyfriend, friend, or casual acquaintance.

(Over the years you have covered stories on all these topics which provides great context for my series on fairy tales)

Also, let’s not forget the spending power of young adults will continue to increase. Students hold much of the influence in this market with a total annual income of $103.3 billion in the U.S. and $102.8 billion in Europe. I’m yet to confirm the exact numbers for Australia.

With my skill of story and your marketing budget the possibilities are endless such as badges telling girls to love themselves coupled with my story on the girl that was so fat a wolf ate her. Profits from the badges can go some eating disorder/image disorder/presexualisation clinic of your choice, or maybe it can be a reader vote? I’m just tossing out ideas here.

I look forward to your response and for your convenience and to encourage a hasty reply I have also enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope.

Kind Regards,

Lou Sanz

 *all facts sourced from a general Wikipedia search

I like my friends, conditionally.

I like my friends. I find it helps. However sometimes I get the distinct impression that if faced with a ravenous mega crocodile in a swamp they would throw a bucket of fish guts over me and then run for the hills watching from afar as I get torn limb from limb, stopping only to remark to each other ‘poor Lou, she’s just always in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

This thought came about after a good friend of the ‘I just met him at the gym and he was the one and now we’ve bought a split level apartment together in Woollahra and I thought I knew what happiness was but I didn’t, I was a fool on a teenagers errand because now that I’ve met the blood (his name is Ian*) that pumped through my heart, well Lou I wondered how I ever managed without it before’ variety sent me an email admonishing me for not even owning a toaster oven and highly recommending I go on a blind date with one of Ian’s friends.

A new toaster oven I could use, but a blind date, chances of that making me an evenly toasted piece of heaven smothered with Nutalex was highly unlikely and that level of certainty comes with age children, age.

I emailed her back, politely declining, telling her I’d recently bought the box set of Pugwall and I owed it to him to watch it in full over the next say month or 36 years, so she rang me.

‘Pugwall isn’t available in box set yet. I Googled it. You’re lying.’

‘It should be.’

‘This is neither the time nor the place to go into that Lou.’

‘I finished Press Gang last week.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

Silence.

‘He’s a very nice man Lou.’

‘I’m sure his mum finds him real nice.’

‘Really Lou? A mum joke?’

‘Technically it wasn’t really a mum joke, but granted there was an inference so I’ll give you that.’

She ignored me and to be fair I understood why.

‘Ok, so he’s nice.’

‘Yes nice and has a job. He’s not leaving someone, dating anyone else, not moving overseas, doesn’t have a harem I know of and he doesn’t dress as a clown.’

‘I’ve never dated a clown.’

‘Clowns, performers, street folk, it’s all the same from where I sit with all my financial security looking down on you.’

‘Look, I’m just really not into the idea of it at all.’

‘Just think of it like going to a Farmer’s Market and you’re the cow that needs to be milked.’

‘That analogy managed to offend me on so many levels.’

‘Good’

‘And look I’m going away in a week so now really isn’t a good time to start anything.’

‘You’re going to Sydney for a weekend.’

‘Exactly’

‘And his recent STD check came back clear and don’t panic I showed him a copy of yours.’

‘God, I should never have given you a copy.’

‘Consider it a reference check.’

‘Fine, I’ll meet him.’

Within 15 minutes of hanging up I’d received an email from him, informing me he liked going to the gym, the movies and he’d Googled me, thus the absence of questions directly relating to myself I imagined. I’m not a mad fan of Googling people. I have a weird thing about getting to know them on my own terms, not have information thrust upon me, but this doesn’t always halt the expectation from others that you’ve Googled them. Whilst dating someone it came to my attention I’d missed his birthday – oh stop throwing stones – I’d asked him on numerous occasions when it was and he wouldn’t tell me. None of this was helped when at dinner one night I asked how his week had been and he pointed out I’d missed his birthday, something that if I’d ever checked his Wikipedia entry I would’ve known…

I wrote back to email guy and said next Wednesday would be good for a coffee. He tried to up the anti to dinner but I know what I’m like after a meal and a glass/bottle of wine so I told him coffee was preferable. He wrote back saying fingers crossed they might serve nuts there. I wrote back saying that if was prone to such overwhelming bursts of hunger perhaps it best he ‘eat’ before we met up.

The Wednesday arrived and out of the blue so did my parents, fresh from an 8 week jaunt around the Mediterranean. I’d have to reschedule. I sent him a quick text explaining the unexpected events that had led to our coffee cancellation, heck I even through in some wit without trying to sound flippant. All in all it was the perfect text message, however my intended audience didn’t agree.

My phone beeped. He’d replied:

‘Hi, look I’m worried if you can’t make time for us now then what hope do we have for a future. Think about it.’

I couldn’t help but think he had a great sense of humour, so I checked.

‘Are you serious?’ I wrote back.

‘Yes. I need to know now you’re just not going to flake out on me. I really wanted to meet you but I’m started to think you don’t want the same things I want for us.’

Ok, let’s just drown the puppy in the hessian sack now. I looked around to make sure I wasn’t jilting someone at the alter and had some how become so torn from  my  own reality I hadn’t even noticed, but no, my tracksuit was still firmly on and my kitchen looked nothing like a cathedral, but the floor did need to be mopped.

I deleted his number from my phone and got out the bucket.

My phone rang, it was my friend.

‘It took a lot of leg pulling to get that guy to even agree to meet you, especially after he read your blog.’

‘And hello to you too.’

‘Don’t Lou.’

‘Sorry’ I put the bucket down.

‘He rang to say you’ve stopped responding to his messages.’

‘Yes, about 3 minutes ago I stopped responding to his messages.’

‘Is this what happens Lou? Is that why your relationships end up in the toilet faster then a uni girl’s hair extension after a smoko?’

‘For Christ’s sake, he acted like we’d agree to start working things out after having gone through a legal separation.’

‘You’d be so lucky’ my friend scoffed.

‘He’s not right in the head.’

‘A predisposition to schizophrenia is a non-issue Lou.’

‘Oh my god is it so hard to believe that I have little to no interest in getting married or moving in with someone? If and when you see me advertised on Craig’s list then maybe I’ll re-evaluate, but right now I’m fine with Pugwall and men that might not return my calls.’

She said nothing as I imagined her muting the Lifestyle Channel before coming back to me.

‘Ok, fine. I’ll just tell him you’re taking time to figure yourself out.’

‘No, just tell him his messages were inappropriate and scary and at the end of the day I prefer the company of clowns.’

‘I knew it.’

‘Yes, you know me better than I know myself.’

We hung up and I picked up the mop just as my phone beeped. It was from email guy.

‘Hey, look you take all the time you need to figure yourself out. I’ll still be here. My sister thought she was gay once too, just turned out she couldn’t eat wheat. Take care.’

And so as I deleted his message and blocked his email address whilst buttering my toast I couldn’t help but think maybe he’d end up being the one that got away and I couldn’t be more grateful for that.

A minor faux pas

Standing on my train station platform I thought about my new financial year resolution; to move away from meeting men at arts industry based events such as music festivals/ library borrowing queues / openings/ other festivals/ readings and the video store. So far it was going well; I hadn’t left my house in over a month. Eventually however, after advice on airing out my bedroom I found myself on a train station platform with a good looking young man standing next to me. Sure it was a crowded platform and one could argue there were really no other options as to where he might stand but in my mind what was important was that I thought I still had ‘it’ and I could meet people outside my ‘circle.’

He looked harmless enough, black wool jumper and jeans, not so tight as to cut off his family legacy and black worn brogues. All he was missing was a petite red-haired girlfriend with a blunt fringe, a smock with the Saver’s tag still on it, a pamphlet on alternative birth control methods and a Banksy tattoo and he would’ve looked like the guy who had everything, but all he had was a clip board and nothing else.

‘It’s very cold isn’t it?’ I turned around to see clipboard guy speaking directly to me.

‘Yes’ I replied as I hugged my large oversized duffle coat around me, a coat that could’ve past for a doona cover and of late given Melbourne’s freezing temperatures had been alternating as one. I’d had to start using the coat when I realised I’d started to develop an unnatural attachment to my hot bottle and the fact it had the ability to contour to my body shape. I only wanted one thing to do that and preferably I didn’t want it made from rubber and smelling like my grandmother.

‘Guess that’s winter for you’ he continued, allowing our natural chemistry to flow.

‘Well yeah, June is a winter month.’

‘So are August and July but not always in that order’ he pointed out to me.

‘Yeah.’

He fiddled with his clipboard.

‘Mind if I ask you some questions?’

‘No, not at all’ I responded as my ovaries began to move of their own accord – they were still there, good.

‘I noticed when you arrived at this station that you failed to validate your ticket.’

Ok, so this one wasn’t like other men I’d known, this one was a conversationalist. Tick.

‘Um, I bought a ticket.’ (I chose not to add the phrase ‘at least’)

‘Yes, I saw that but like I said I failed to see you validate your card. Is there a reason you didn’t manage to do that?’

‘I guess I just forgot.’

‘That’s why we have memory madam, it stops us from forgetting.’

‘What, you’re not making any sense’

‘But some of us don’t like memories. I don’t like all of my memories and that’s why I don’t like dogs and biscuits.’

Suddenly I felt a craving to check my inbox for any invites to something in Fed Square or at Meat Market I had forgotten to RSVP to, I mean who had financial year resolutions anyway?. .idiots did Lou, idiots…

‘Um, it’s not really any of your business why I didn’t validate my card.’

‘Today I’m making it my business’ and with that he opened up his clipboard and I couldn’t help but think this was the reason I’d never really gotten into role play.

‘Ok, fine you want to know why I don’t validate, well let’s start with the train before this one was cancelled and this train the one due to arrive is now 16 minutes late. It’s like being in a relationship with someone who ignores you at parties and then you brush it off cause you are after all barely 5’3 and he would have to look down to even notice you were there and that’s a big ask sometimes, well it’s the same as validating a ticket for a train that is running late all the time, never smiles when they see you and then surprises you by terminating early even though you already booked that holiday to Vietnam and you told him at the time that the tickets were non-refundable – if my own existence can barely be validated then I’ll be damned if I’m going to validate a ticket!’.

Clipboard guy stared at me for a moment.

‘Are you really only 5’3?’

‘I’m wearing heels today.’

‘Oh that explains it.’

He didn’t say anything for a moment.

‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You didn’t upset me, I’m ok, just fine me and let’s be done with this.’

‘What makes you think I’m a transit officer?’

‘You’ve got a clipboard.’

‘Lot’s of guys carry clipboards and it doesn’t mean we work in the transit industry. I don’t even own a car, but I bet you couldn’t tell what with your eyes being so jaded by prejudice.’

‘How does owning a car have anything to do with whether I validated my ticket?’

‘From where I stand it has everything to do with it.’

I looked up at the train timetable, delayed by another 7 minutes; God must’ve still been in the bathroom tending to himself.

‘Look, don’t worry I’m not a transit cop, I’m not going to fine you even though you are pretty fine, maybe we should have a coffee sometime. My mother says coffee is good for you.’

I realised at that point me developing an almost sexual relationship with my hot bottle wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing…

‘So if you’re not here to fine me what are you doing?’

‘It’s an assignment for school.’

‘School? Like postgraduate buiness school?’..even I noticed the desperate pleading in my voice.

‘No like high school. I’m doing an assignment on ethics and we were told to approach single parents and ask them a series of questions to see if their ethics had evolved after becoming parents let down by the world.’

‘You’re in high school?’

‘Yeah, Year 11.’

‘So you’re like 17 years old.’

’16 actually.’

‘Oh good, that makes what I was thinking 20 minutes ago even more illegal.’

The train finally pulled up.

‘I’m not a single mum just so you know’ I felt I needed to point that out to him.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to offend, it was just the fact you were carrying a doona with you.’

‘It’s my coat.’

‘Looks like a doona.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I like older woman you know. I get on great with my mum and she says I’ve got very soft hands.’

‘Lucky lady.’

‘She doesn’t have to be the only lucky lady in my life.’

 And with that I boarded the train and maybe, just maybe I walked away from an opportunity missed.

I’ve started wearing tracksuits

Often when one thinks of romance we conjure up images of young, nubile (look, maybe that’s just me and my penchant for being able to bounce things off walls) creatures, fornicating on a deserted beach at sunset, declaring a love that need not speak its name, unapologetically crushing the pink tinged roses he’d bought her at the start of their date…

To be honest though, after years of getting sand in my crutch and never been given flowers, when I think of romance it’s slightly more evolved, having changed from whispers of sweet nothings to something more along the lines of that if I’ve been seeing a guy for a few months and I don’t receive a phone call from a friend telling me he’s been shagging someone else, well I burst into tears of happiness cause fuck me I’ve never felt so much joy.

However in recent weeks my idea of romance has evolved once again, it’s more platonic by nature (and no, I’m not mounting objects on the wall and running at them). Whether this has been a result of getting better bed sheets or recent illness’s ‘how many flu’s can you get?’ it’s growing where?’ and ‘you’re not pregnant like we first thought, it’s an infection’, I’ve found myself seduced by the romance of being a shut in.

It started simply enough. Friends asking me to go and have a good time with them, sure it seemed like a nice idea but that would involved getting dressed into what I call my ‘outside’ clothes and I’d only recently discovered the benefits of your ex leaving his crap at yours – large over sized hooded jumpers. I needed to devote as much time as I could to this new found discovery. Of course I wasn’t a complete social drop out; I’d always offer a solution to my friends:

‘Come around to mine and I’ll make us some dinner, we don’t need to go out to have a good time.’

‘Will you be wearing pants?’

‘Yes’

‘And what about that gingham smock thing?’

‘I’ll be wearing both; I’ve neither shaved my underarms or my legs.’

I did understand though why my friends started seeing other people when my dinner menu consisted of the one and only question ‘baked beans or spaghettio’s, and I don’t have any bread, we’ll just have to make do without bread right?’

My flat mates were as supportive as they could be with it all, but when one wandered in to see me reading my copy of Laura Bushes biography and fiddling with the oven whilst drinking my 10th cup of strong Yorkshire tea for the day and lamenting I couldn’t find my anti-anxiety medication anywhere useful and must’ve left it in the shower, well he had to intervene cause ‘Lou, you haven’t showered in days, lets stop making shit up ok?’

I was sure I wasn’t a complete lost cause; after all I had to leave the house to go to my local video store to continue my research on British police procedural dramas. What I was researching I didn’t know quite yet. It had taken me about 30 seconds to admit to myself I’d so go Vincent D’Onofrio from Law & Order Criminal Intent, but the lead guy from Midsummer Murders, well it had been over 6 years and I still wasn’t convinced, as such there was much work to be done.

The video store was easy enough; people go in there with top high ponytails and hooded jumpers all the time. I made my selection, including some DVD’s of a show I was to be in, but when I got to the counter and the clerk informed me I was one over my Weekly Special limit I chose to put that DVD back – really, I thought, I should buy it, you know support local industry the way it was supporting me – the clerk seemed happy with my selection including the one I chose to put back.

‘Good choice putting that one back. If you asked me we stopped making people laugh when the Crocodile Hunter died.’

Arriving home shortly after I logged onto the internet and joined an online DVD rental store.

It was pointed out though at some point, even though I was literally living in my own filth trying to work to deadline that I might need deodorant or a leg razor, you know for ‘special occasions.’

Trudging out in my smock and high tops I walked the 50 meters to my local shopping centre and found myself staring at the deodorant rack, armed with soy milk, veggie burgers, HP sauce and Oreos, debating whether a further spend of 38c was warranted given I wasn’t loyal to any sort of particular brand. To this day I don’t know the difference between a deodorant and an antiperspirant and I’m afraid I’m too old to ask.

Now I’m not casting judgment on anyone that picks up in the toiletries aisle at a supermarket, but I’m not a huge fun of scoring anywhere near where they sell lubricant and indigestion tablets, because it would be too much like looking into a future relationship mirror. So imagine my surprise if you will when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun around to see a man wearing elastic wasted trousers – enough said.

‘I know you from somewhere’ he so eloquently observed.

My vanity got the better of me, Christ I was in a smock and trainers.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Yes, I saw you die at Vibe comedy one night. It was awful you were shit.’

‘Thanks.’
‘Me I like jokes that rhyme.’

‘We all have a type.’

‘That we do, that we do.’

‘So buying deodorant, you don’t smell that bad.’

‘I wear deodorant.’

‘Then why you buying more?’

‘It’s not like a never ending packet of Tim Tams.’

‘I don’t understand’.

…and it was at that point I realized he quite possibly wasn’t even 24, of course he wouldn’t get the reference.

‘Look, um, if you’re not doing anything would you like to come to Maccas with me? I have a voucher and a health care car, gets you a discount’

He then noticed my soy milk and before I could answer…

‘..hey sorry, just saw the soy milk, but that’s cool, we both like vag.’

I went home and joined Woolworths Home Delivery and safe in the knowledge I wasn’t leaving my house anytime soon, took off my pants.

Helen Mirren and Me

It’s a sad day financially and personally when you find yourself standing at the frozen food aisle at 9 o’clock on a Saturday night staring at the home brand frozen French fries, complaining into your mobile to a friend that you refuse to spend more than $3.68 on fries, but that said, a potato gem, well one can’t place a monetary value on genius.

‘Why don’t you just go to McDonald’s or that fish and chip shop around the corner?’ my friend so ignorantly suggested.

‘Because I never actually see them working there. They’re always out the front and that says to me they don’t change their oil.’

‘But you’ll eat something resembling a potato cake no questions asked from Golden Tower at 4am.’

‘My self worth was particularly low that day, and if you remember correctly I also found the guy who ran the 7/11 shaggable that evening. We all have lapses in judgement and anyway I want to make my own chips.’

‘Then buy a potato’

‘No, they have to be frozen, oven baked fries. It’s Saturday night for crying out loud and I have Prime Suspect on DVD. Don’t you see? Scrubbing, peeling, cutting and roasting my own chips – I might as well start wearing knitted trousers and calling my kids Acorn and Wonderment.

There was silence for a moment.

‘Hey, I was thinking, what happens when we don’t have internet?’ My friend pondered.

‘What, like if it didn’t exist?’

‘No, as in, I don’t have it where I’m staying right now.’

‘Well I assume you’ll just have to do what most people do. Call someone, pay them, get it installed, or you could take your laptop outside, find someone to sit in the gutter and cross your fingers.’

‘That’s called stealing.’

‘No, in today’s world it’s referred to as knowledge transfer.’

I awaited her answer while considering if my hair should endure another winter with discount conditioner.

‘Hmmm, look Lou I need to go; my hair dye is bleeding into the handset.’

‘Ha! You’re dying your hair on a Saturday night – loser!’

‘You’re buying frozen chips.’

‘Ok, to be fair I’ve now moved onto condiments.’

‘Yep, how’s that cognitive therapy working out?’

‘I haven’t started yet, like I only just gave up coffee and all other stimulants including men- BAM! – did you get it? It was a joke!’

‘Yeah, Lou I got it, but I think you should hop to it, cause just imagine how embarrassed you’ll be after I visit you after your first suicide attempt. I mean you’ll just kick yourself.’

‘I’m hanging up now.’

‘Enjoy your potato.’

‘Thank you. I will.’

Now at home and settled into with my box set of Prime Suspect a.k.a Helen Mirren marathon and chips, I began to imagine myself as DCI Tennison. I smiled as she spoke of fish fingers, knowing that she too wouldn’t have broken budget to buy the better frozen chips. We both shared that quality of great humility coupled with superiority. I didn’t have time to think of all our other similarities, the DVD was about to start.

NOTE TO SELF: forge new career as actor as have recently discovered an ability to emphasise with Oscar winning actress Helen Mirren. Follow up with manager on Monday.

oh the drama of the dramatic

I experienced my first walk out the other night at comedy festival. A young couple who seated themselves so far back, I thought for a moment they were trying to position themselves to also catch a glimpse of the other show in the next room, at the very least to experience the touch of faux velvet curtains adorning the makeshift theatre against the whites of their skin.

What amused me about it all was the timing. Having just knocked out a bit about a finger assault of the insertion variety, I could admit ‘ok, not everyone’s cup of tea’, but to walk out in the middle of my ode to seaQuest DSV’s Jonthathan Brandis, well that’s just rude – the man hung himself for crying out loud – I don’t expect laughs, but respect, at the very least I expect that and so does Jonathan.

But that’s the thing about walk out’s, they never live up to the expectation, well mine don’t anyway. I always sit there offended and then at an ill considered time like say if someone’s asking after the health of my mother, I storm out, realise how out of context me walking out would make no sense to the person I was trying to prove a passionate point with and then I have to come back into the room, let them know my mother is in fine health and yes, I know you also tried to sleep with my boyfriend last month, and that’s really inconsiderate given we all know your rash hasn’t quite cleared up yet – and then I leave the room again – the thing about the walk out is you have to commit to it.

Given my audience walk outs didn’t return that night, I take my hat off to them – I often worry about the lack of conviction in today’s youth, but they managed to reassure me somewhat that not all is lost.

There are a few of my own walkouts that still stick in my head.

1. Being dragged to see a NIDA first year graduate piece on movement and walking out. (yes, I know, it clearly doesn’t need anymore explanation)

2. Being dragged to a WAPPA musical theatre graduate showcase and walking out.

3. Finding out my mother was really my father one year at Christmas (ok, not true, but saying I walked out because I inadvertently ate fishing bait thinking it was shrimp and thus was made to sit at the children’s table as a result doesn’t have the same impact).

4. Being taken on a date where a guy superimposed his head over mine in a picture and presented it as ‘our future’.

5. Seeing ‘Scary Movie 3’ and having only myself to blame, walked out.

…and then of course there was my walkout of 2009. I’d been seeing this new guy. He seemed pleasant enough and when I say pleasant I mean he didn’t open up with ‘the divorce was hard for me and the kids’ or ‘my mum is just a great flat mate, you know what they say, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it, or cut the umbilical cord’ and my favourite ‘I’m really looking for the one right now, but that might be one in a million and so if I have to sleep with a million women to find that one then it’s special when I finally find her, my only hope is she’s still working at Victoria’s Secret.’

We were hanging out with his friends (he was yet to meet mine, so that should give you a better understanding of where I saw this going) at a show I’d produced, in a bar full of my peers, sitting next to one of my friends when he decided the mood was right for a bit of a chat, oh to make it even more romantic, I’d just gone to kiss him and he pushed me away, nudging me back into the other people on the couch just enough so that they’re attention was now turned on us in that ‘they’re looking but not looking’ kinda way.

‘Um Lou, you know I like you and everything.’

‘Ok…’

‘But here’s the thing, when I look at you I really can’t see this being a relationship thing.’

‘It isn’t a relationship thing.’

‘But, and correct me if I’m wrong, I’m pretty sure you’re viewing it as a relationship thing.’

‘Let me correct you then….’

‘Ok Lou, no need to get worked up about this.’

‘I’m not worked up, but we’ve only gone out three times and I’ve never bought up a relationship.’

‘But you’re 30.’

‘And?’

‘Well it’s inevitable that eventually you’ll bring up the relationship thing, if not now then 7 months or a year from now if we were still going out.’

‘If we were still going out after a year then I’d argue that would be a relationship.’

‘And there in lies my point Lou – see to assume it’d be even close to a relationship after a year is a massive assumption and I can’t see myself in all honesty with someone who makes assumptions for the both of us.’

‘You’re an idiot.’

‘Alright, no need to get mean about this, but I’m breaking up with you and I think it best you hear it from me.’

‘You can’t break up with me if we weren’t really together yet.’

‘Can’t I Lou, can’t I?…you really need to stop being so hooked up about definitions.’

I took a deep breath and wondered to myself about whether or not I should take the door till home with me that night or come back tomorrow.

‘Hey Lou, look if it’s any consolation I still find you really hot and I’m still very attracted to you, like I could easily take you home tonight cause you make me very…, but the thing is when I’m seen out with you in public I find it awkward and uncomfortable for me – there I said it.’

‘Ok’

‘And now I’m having to meet all your friends.’

‘I’ve not even introduced you to one of them.’

‘But I know who they are.’

‘Seeing them on TV does not mean you know them.’

‘Doesn’t it Lou? Doesn’t it?’

And so it was at this point I got up to walk out.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘Home.’ I grabbed my purse and suddenly my friend who’d been sitting next to me on the other side of the couch gently touched my arm.

‘Everything ok?’ he asked.

‘Yep, just think I got dumped by someone I wasn’t in a relationship with.’

‘Oh who?’

I pointed.

‘I didn’t even know you two were seeing each other.’

‘My point exactly’ I bemoaned to him, catching my stride as I headed towards the door, but not before my ‘dumper’ pulled me to the side.

‘Listen Lou, there’s no need to make a scene by walking out, lets not make you leaving the last memory you and I have together.’

I thought about it for the moment, maybe I shouldn’t leave, it was a nice party after all, actually it was my party….and it really is at this point that a well timed slap and a solid exit would have served me well, or even throwing him out would have been a compromise, but hey, I’m always the first to admit I’m the architect of my own demise…

‘…it’s just’ he continued ‘there’s a girl here who I really like and she’s a fan of your blog and stuff and if she’s us arguing I think that might just sully my chances with her – what do you say?’

‘I say no.’

‘Christ, you just can’t move on can you Lou, just admit it’s over and the sooner you can get back to a normal life, one devoid of this heart ache our break up has caused you.’

‘What script are you reading from?’ I asked.

‘The script of life Lou, you should try it sometime.’

And it was only at the point did I walk out and I’m pretty sure he landed the other lady, so in hindsight I shouldn’t be so harsh on myself – it was very well timed.

My Phone and the art of self-sabotage

My closest friends, lovers, people on trams, anyone who brushes up against me using one  whilst ordering a coffee in an already cramped Brunswick coffee shop on a Friday morning letting me and everyone else know that he’s ‘…already got bread, you just need to get those tomatoes, but not the ones from Coles cause they’re imported from El Salvador, oh and yeah, I can’t believe I made it through a whole gram either last night, crazy’….or at least has heard/ read my manifesto on  my almost pathological disdain of iPhone’s. I’ve made no attempts to hide this, but I have admitted that if I get lost in the desert and die, the result of not having a GPS tracking device or ‘Don’t die in the desert app’, then yes, I would have learnt my lesson.

The thing is, I’m not against iPhone’s as such – they do seem incredibly convenient but I fear they’re making us, well specifically – my friends socially retarded. Over Christmas and having barely seen anyone for a month I got together with 2 of my friends, now proud iPhone users, I mean they couldn’t have been prouder had they birthed the damn things, eaten the placenta it came in and named it after their father’s father. As you can imagine, much like sitting opposite new parents/ the newly engaged/ new home owners, it was a riveting catch up.

‘No, I had no idea there was an app that  added up the accumulative effect of sodium on potato chips after the rain fall – yes, you are right, you have a responsibility to Twitter that right now.’

‘Someone pointed out there is no difference between a latte and a flat white????!!!!! – yeah, that’s a defo re-tweet’.

‘Stephen Fry’s following you…sure, I’d ask, like I’m sure he’d do your open mic room, can’t see why not.’

I left after 30 minutes, explaining I was bleeding internally from a broken heart – I felt like a woman trapped in a loveless marriage, who for the last 20 years only knew the feel of her own palm pressed against herself – but they didn’t need to know that, no one did.

The problem is of course, because I refuse to be upgraded to an iPhone, I am the less than pleased owner of a plastic phone that would retail at say around the price of a skinless frankfurter sausage and a plastic McDonald’s sundae spoon. As of yesterday, before getting on stage to do a show I dropped it for the 16^th time in a month and I fear, much like dropping a baby on it’s head after one too many Tia Maria’s, it has affected it’s already stunted performance.

A few weeks ago my phone did this to great affect. In a playful mood I sent my current manfriend a message, one of the ‘choose your own adventure’ kinds. It was such a good suggestion that I assumed it would get a response of at least ‘I’ll see what’s in the vegie keeper’ within the next couple of hours. However, after about 6 hours and with me now sitting having coffee with a friend I told her about the message and the lack of interest I’d received after sending it. As I scrolled threw my phone to show it to her, hoping she wouldn’t slide off her chair after reading it, an almost expected side affect – I realised it wasn’t in my sent folder – a message sent to my mother earlier that day about and 7.30 Report was there, but not this message.

I now only had one option – I’d face this head on – I texted him again to see if he got the message, given I was concerned I’d sent it to someone else and as any one knows who chases someone up with ‘did you get my last message???? It went really well – the fact is that  that simple text escalated to a series of phone calls ending in ‘are you checking up on me? I was asleep…’’ (him) to ‘you’re a f**k wit’ (me)    -showing just how much my phone hated me. I couldn’t help but thing this was the universes (or at least Apple’s) way of forcing my into getting an iPhone. But my phone underestimated my resolve, perhaps it’s only weakness – yes, I’d rather sabotage a burgeoning romance than get an iPhone – I’d rather enjoy the touch of my own hand, than that of my new man and after all, he has two iPhone’s…he’s on shakey ground anyway.

And then came opening night of comedy festival. Tired and sleepy after 2 back-to-back shows and staggering out of a cab after midnight on a Wednesday I didn’t notice my phone drop out of my bag. I just managed to make it to bed, decide not to put my sheets on properly, or take my eye make-up with a conviniently located make-up removal wipe by my bed (because I’m a bigger fan of washing pillow cases) and watched episodes of Red Dwarf until my wired brain caught up with my tired eyes and the whole time I didn’t notice my missing phone.

In the morning though I noticed it was gone. I cursed myself, realising I’d have to buy a doppelganger that day – cause yes, I’d buy the same phone – I come from a family that buys the same dog after one dies – old habits die hard. However, just as I was leaving the house, I noticed out of the corner of my eye my phone, perched tauntingly on top of my letter box – surely it should be dead right now, or at least stolen – but really, even I had to admit the likely hood of someone stealing a prepaid plastic phone who’s ‘send picture’ feature is an old pixilated drawing of a birthday cake, probably wouldn’t fetch much on the open market.

But hey, how much harm could my phone has done, left out in the cold late at night? …let me tell you – it can call a man I’m not seeing at 3.30am, a man next listed next to the guy I am seeing  and give this other guy the idea that I was calling him at 3.30 in the morning for, well you figure it out….mind you I’m not sure how hot the sound of someone parking, or the bins being picked up really can be, but hey different stokes rule the world.

At the conclusion of this story I have now decided to buy an iPhone…that’s really where I was going with this.

and oh, if you want to se a show:

http://www.comedyfestival.com.au/2010/season/shows/lou-sanz-please-don-t-use-my-flannel-for-that-a-memoir