An Ode to Airwolf

Camp Ass Cobra (amidst the Bluegums) was deserted, save for Dane and I. Dane, deep in concentration, was applying some green lines of face paint. I was trying very hard to remain still and to keep my face from breaking into a line-ruining grin. It's gotta be said, there's a lot of pressure involved in applying paint to a face. I learned that later, applying but ONE pink line to Ferg's cheek. I quickly bailed and handed the reigns to Dane. After all, it's not like you can just control+Z that shit. It's a face. 

In any case, that was the happening occurring on Saturday evening at Golden Plains 2013; Dane and I readying ourselves for battle, and for attacking the party zone. I'd already put on my Obnoxious Dress, and our Battle Helmets were ready to go. All of a sudden, we hear stumbling footsteps behind us. 

"Oibro. You're like, fucking, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." 

He sat down in the chair opposite us. Tall, lanky, covered in dirt, wearing only runners and very, very, very conspicuously torn underwear. His eyes and a slew of scrapes along his legs spoke of a long, long day of getting very, very fucked up. 

He stared at Dane. An unfocused, Getting On It a little too hard kind of stare. 

"Bro. I'd fucking, I'd suck your dick." 

"The fuck...?" 

Dane attempted to stifle his laughter. "Hey man. What're you doing?" 

The lanky boy spat onto the ground. It was a globby, mouth-so-dry kind of spit. "Do you have any boys clothes I could borrow?" 

"Uhh. Nah, sorry." 

"Oh, come on man. Just like, a singlet or something. I'd suck your dick. I've sucked like, four dicks." He turned to me. "Do you have any boys clothes I could borrow?" 

"Nah, man." I replied, snorting with laughter. "I just brought dresses." 

He stared me down, as if just noticing that I was there. 

"You're pretty fucking hot, bro. I'd finger the fuck out of you. I'm serious bro. I'd fucking, smash you." He turned to Dane. "Bro, your bitch is pretty hot. Is she your bitch, bro? I'd fuck up your tits. I'd fucking, fuck them." He tried to spit onto the ground, but it landed on his chest and dribbled down. He was gross. 

Meanwhile, Dane and I were in various stages of hysterical laughter. Cause here's the thing about this particular guy. If you can imagine anyone, anyone else saying the truly ridiculous, mostly disgusting, probably offensive things this kid was saying, you'd most likely tell them to fuck the hell off. You'd be insulted, offended and more than a little bit disgusted.

This kid though, was just a dumb kid who'd had way too much of whatever he'd been having. Even when he admitted he needed "boys clothes" because the cops were looking for a guy in a dress (him) because he and his friends (already kicked out) been selling drugs and being general douche-canoes of a nuisance (I'm paraphrasing), he was little more than kind of scummy and very hilarious. Almost endearing. Aw, kid. You'd think. You're alright, even if you're gross and there's a giant hole in yer undies.

He peppered his speech with globs of spit spat onto the dusty ground, and with exclamations of "OIBRO" or "FUCKIIINNG". And I tell you what, I have never met a more instantly quotable person.

"I get into fights but, fucking, I never win bro."

"You cunts got any goon?"

"I'm a honey badger. Honey badger don't give a shit. I'm RELENTLESS."

"Bro. Bro. I'll tell you a story bro." Pause. "So I was fingering this chick right, and she said I was shit. So I was like, 'fuck you bitch', and fucking, I left." Pause. "Do you guys like spiders?"

"Seriously bro. Do you have any boys clothes I could borrow?"

"I'm not kidding bro. I would smash the fuck out of you. Fuuuuuuuck."

"What happened to your leg?"
"I kicked someone's goonbag out of their hands and I fucking, fell over bro."

"What's your name, mate?" Dane asked.
"AIRWOLF."
"Airwolf?"
"AIRWOLF-AROOOOOOOOOOOO!. I'm a HONEYBADGER, I'm fucking RELENTLESS I DON'T GIVE A SHIT."

He paused for a little bit, to consider his surroundings. By then he was wearing a crown of flowers I had, and was sporting a definite semi-boner. Dane had finished my face, and painting his own face. Airwolf was staring at my chestular area, which was a little disconcerting.

"What size are you? C cup?" He stared some more. "D cup?"
I laughed. "Fuck no. B, bro."
"You coulda fooled me, mate. I'd fucking, fuck your tits up. Give me half a chance, I'd fuck ya." Airwolf paused. "Do you have a wide-set vagina and a heavy flow?"

With that, Dane exploded into hysterical, red-faced, crying, gasping laughter. Oh man. This kid. Fucking, Airwolf. He threw Dane's face paint into the bluegums. It hit a car. Sat back down, and hit himself in the dick with the stack of cups he was holding. He asked me again about my status re: wide-set vagina and heavy flow. He talked about relentless honey badgers. He accidentally spat on my boot, then licked it up. He licked my boot, covered in a day and a half's worth of dust, spilt beer and assorted scum.

"My mum does"

I don't think I've ever seen Dane laugh that hard. And I haven't laughed like that in a really, really really long time. If nothing else, Airwolf gave our abs a fucking workout. Thank you, Airwolf.

Eventually, the rest of Camp Ass Cobra returned to the site, right in time for cocktail hour to commence. They greeted Airwolf warmly, thinking he was a pal of ours, but almost immediately saw his ripped undies, his semi-boner, and his more-than-a-little-fucked general aura.

"Hi there" said someone "How're you going...?"

"Oi you motherfuckers got any goon, cunts?" 

If that's not an amazing opening line, then I don't know what is.

It's around that time that it became clear young Airwolf was outstaying his welcome. Dane and I had enjoyed a good ol' lol, but the jokes were getting repeated ("Why did the chicken cross the road? TO GET FUCKED UUUUUUUP!") and he was on a very, very different wavelength to the rest of the Ass Cobras. 

"What happened to your clothes?" 

"The cops are looking for a guy in girls clothes. Seriously, you got any goon?" 

He looked at me, as if rediscovering the fact that I was even there. 

"Fuck bro, give me half a chance and I'd finger the fuck out of you. I love black chicks." 

Black chicks? 

Everyone burst into peals of laughter. Young Airwolf obviously misinterpreted said laughter, because he felt the need to repeat himself. "Seriously! I'd go ya! I love black chicks!" 

It was shortly after "black chicks" that Airwolf was told by Ferg ("If you want me to fuck off, just tell me!" "Okay. Time to fuck off.") to take his leave. It wasn't before Airwolf had the chance to hurl "Fuck you, bitch!" at just about everyone in attendance, or before he had the chance to remind everyone of his "huge semi-boner". 

Man. Reading back on this, I realised how utterly gross just about everything he said really was. And it was! But there was something about him that made you want to pat his hair and tell him to have a nap. Maybe it's because I know all too well the vague memory of having engaged in some insulting word-vomit during a festival rampage. Maybe? I can't say I've ever been hunted by the cops while in drag, telling everyone within sight to get fucked, cunts. 

It wasn't just me though, because on our way back to the Supernatural Amphitheatre, Ferg turned to Dane and I. "Was I too mean to him? I felt like maybe I was mean." See? That's what I meant when I said, this kid was disgusting, awful, rude and really, really scummy but gosh-darn it if you just didn't end up hoping that he ended up getting home okay and that he ended up finding some boys clothes. Jeez, I can't say I usually act so friendly-like to someone who so RELENTLESS-ly offers to "finger the fuck" out of me. 

In any case, that was the last we saw of Airwolf. As we drove out of Golden Plains the following morning, I almost half-expected to see him lying in the middle of a paddock, or walking down the road to Geelong, yelling at cars "OI MOTHERFUCKERS YOU GOT ANY GOON, CUNTS?"

AROOOOOOOOOOO!

Back to the Colonial Hotel

A kind of shitty photo of the scene of the crime.

I had an interesting experience a couple of nights ago. Put simply, I had a run-in with the location that provides the background to a truly staggering amount of my teenage memories...many of which feature me literally staggering around. I went back to the Colonial Hotel for the first time in about five years and, upon seeing it clean and not filled with drunken young'uns (and not being a drunken young'un myself), had my mind blown when I realised where the hell I was. That was where my friends and I spent many, many a weekend circa 2007...being super alternative, going to an alternative club, and having all sorts of awkward teenage adventures in the World of Going Out to Clubs, which obviously none of us were well-versed in.

Context. I occasionally take photos and do some copywriting for the Venuemob. A quick plug, they're a really lovely bunch of dudes, and I'm having an absolute blast spending time in the office writing for them and occasionally trundling around town taking photos of venues. It's a welcome change from sitting around the house in my pyjamas doing "work", and it's nice to be earning money doing things that aren't waitressing and making coffees. So if you have a function coming up, give the website a look-see.

ANYWAY.

Tuesday night I made my way to the Colonial Hotel to take some photos of their various spaces for the Venuemob website. I got there, and the ground floor was nicely set up with tables and chairs and tablecloths and flowers. It all looked very classy. At that stage I had a vague recollection of having been there before, but I was in a rush and was running late. So I met the girl working that night we went upstairs and BAM. BAM. My mind exploded everywhere.

I remembered the stairs. I remembered the room to the right, that'd more often than not be playing 90s hits. I remembered the little in-between room, where people'd be making out. And I remembered the main room, with its bar on one end and D-Floor at the other, where I'd spent many, many weekends from the age of about eighteen till I dunno, a couple years after that.

My mouth agape, a few exclamations of "Holy shit! Ho-ly-SHIT!" escaped my face. "I remember this place!" I cried. "I came here all the time!" There was a guy with us too.

"What was the name of the night that was on here, on weekends? Ages ago?" I asked him.
"I dunno, there's been heaps. Um. Click Click?"
My arms flailed around. "YES! That was it! Click Click!"
He laughed. "Oh my god. That was ages ago. Years ago."
Well shit. I thought. I guess it was. 
"Yeah, it was."

It was strange to suddenly see the venue clean, and empty...and clean. Click Click and that other god-awful night that was on ... Pow, or Splooge, or Bang, or Crash or whatever the fuck it was called, my friends and I were there all the time. For those of you who never had the questionable good fortune to attend, it was a bunch of rooms playing "alternative" music while emo-fringed kids danced around and made out, and while my friends and I took our first foray into the world of going out and getting kind of fucked up.

A pimply-faced youth. One of the few photos
of that era I could find on Facebook.

It was a time when kids still hung out in front of Flinders Street Station. It was a time when everyone had an emo fringe. It was a time when people still used Myspace. It was a time when my friends and I hadn't exactly figured out our style and schtick and what exactly it was that we were about. So obviously, I occasionally wore high heels and I had long hair.

My friend Nate rode over, to hang out/keep me company/kill time before we met Jaz and Mike at the Liberty Social to see a Yeasayer DJ set. As I snapped away, I excitedly told Nate about the adventures my high school friends and I had within the very red walls, and on the now-empty and now-clean dance floor.

"Dude, this was the place we spent our weekends!" I repeated again in astonishment.
"Oh, cool."
"Seriously! This is where we ended up on my nineteenth birthday!"
"Awesome."

He was obviously attempting to be interested in my exclamations while he fiddled absentmindedly on his phone. As one of the newer additions to our circle of friends, Nate didn't have the kind of context for five-year-old adventures that Jaz and Alice might. He didn't know me when I was an obnoxious kid. He met me when I was an obnoxious 23-year-old, after all (lol). Still, in the now-empty rooms I had to share the myriad (admittedly blurry) memories rush back to me.

Oh man, the memories! We'd jump around on the D-Floor, singing along to Karnivool's "Themata" for the umpteenth time. That song was played multiple times a night, and we all complained about it ("WHY DON'T THEY PLAY ALBUM TRACKS!"), right before we sang along at the top of our lungs. Back then, I hung out with band-tshirt clad guys, and I almost exclusively dressed in things bought from Dangerfield. We were all skinnier, and we all had longer hair. It was in those rooms that we almost dutifully drank too much, then cabbed our way back to one of our houses then fall asleep on the floor.

We were not particularly well-versed in drinking (we started late), but we'd get it done. The guys weren't particularly good at picking up, and neither was I, but at the tender age of eighteen it felt like that was expected of us. That to go out to a club, we also had to drink too much and attempt to pick up members of the opposite sex. Not that we didn't have an awesome time, but it was the kind of awesome time that you have when you don't quite know what you're doing, and when you don't quite know your limits.

Nate had met me in the "rooftop terrace", which I knew as the "room on the side that played older less metal stuff". I remembered being there on my nineteenth birthday, dancing to "This Charming Man" with a friend from uni. I remembered drunkenly wondering out loud whether or not I should break up with my first boyfriend dancing to some shitty R&B. As we descended the the stairs, and I remembered stumbling down them, and once carrying my blonde friend down them so I could take her home on one of the few occasions she'd joined us at the sprawling club.

Nate sat on the couches downstairs, taking photos of himself with my little iPhone fish-eye lens. I looked around us, at the pillars around the tables around us, so nicely set up. Wasn't this once a club as well?

"Oh MY GOD." I exclaimed.
Nate looked up. "What?"
"This is where Mitch and I met! Except it was a club then, not a restaurant! Oh my GOD."
Nate laughed. "Was he working? Did you say, 'Forget the beer, I'll have your FACE.'?"
"No...shit. I can't believe this looks so different...!"
I laughed, and made a mental note to tell Mitch. It was beyond bizarre.

Anyway, I finally finished taking those gazillion 360 degree virtual tours, and Nate and I left. We headed to the Liberty Social, to meet Jaz and Mike. I was driving. I approached the door and was surprised when the bouncer demanded to see my ID, which I didn't have.

"Seriously man. I'm twenty-four."
I looked over at Nate. He was laughing.
Seriously man. I wanted to tell the bouncer. I just spent the last hour reminiscing about my teenage clumsy drinking and disco pashes. This guy is younger than my younger brother. I AM OLD ENOUGH TO GO INTO THIS BAR.
Instead I said. "Dude. Come on."

It sounds stupid to feel old at this age
but I tell you what it was a weird night...

They let me in. I was driving, so I wasn't drinking. Jaz and Mike were already a bottle of wine and many beers into the night.

Admittedly, my first thought was I am way too sober to be in a room this filled with lasers and smoke machines. And admittedly, I spent the first twenty minutes or so awkwardly dancing, and being very aware of the fact that I was super sober and dancing. I was suddenly reminded of being a kid at Click Click, and being incredibly insecure about the fact that it was expected of me to "dance sexy". And obviously I couldn't do it. Because I was a complete geek, and so were my friends.

Before long though, Nate and I were making complete spectacles of ourselves on the ol' D-Floor, arms punching and legs kicking and jumping around. We pretended to be animals, we pulled faces, we made up truly absurd moves and danced around in a completely over the top way, not giving one iota of a fuck. Covered in sweat and completely sober, we danced up a storm to a DJ set that took a bizarre turn for the 90s-inspired. I laughed to myself, amazed. The nineteen-year old Reb could never have made that much of a D-Floor spectacle of herself while completely sober...unless I was moshing, of course. I would've been too self-conscious. But here I was, making ridiculous faces and making a fool of myself with Nate, who obviously gave even less of a fuck than I did.

Probably how I thought I looked back then.

If nothing else, it's heartening. I can dance my little heart out, and not care what anyone thinks. In fact, I wrote a post entitled "Times I've Enjoyed Dancing", expecting I'd write a few more. I quickly realised though, that every time I go out I now enjoy dancing. Is it something that comes with the years? Is it because I now hang out with people like Alice and Ferg and Nate, with whom I can't help but dance around and not give a fuck? Or am I just becoming more and more comfortable with myself? It's probably a little from columns A, B and C.

Besides that, the fact that I'm able to go out and not immediately sink a bunch of beers is heartening. That I (mostly) know my limits is something I've been glad to note also. Mostly though, the fact that I'm comfortable with myself now and (mostly) don't feel like that naive and insecure kid is something worth high-fiving myself about. PROGRESS.

HOUSTON, WE HAVE PROGRESS.

The overriding feeling I was left with from Wednesday night though, was that it's fucking strange to suddenly think about so many hilarious drunken escapades that I hadn't thought about in many, many years. Jumping around to Rage Against the Machine with your best friends, having after-dark clubby adventures, being eighteen and stupid and fucking up ... it was the best of times, it was the blurst of times. Sunrise, sunset, all that shit.

Onesie Menagerie and a Toothless Grin: Meredith 2012 PART TWO

So many of my Meredith memories are preeetty much like this.

I'm aware of the fact that at this stage, it's been a little while since Meredith. I was actually debating whether or not I'd finish writing this post, seeing as it's so far after the fact, and so far after part one. However, I was at a Christmas dinner a few nights ago and someone asked me what I'd been up to of late. I mentioned I'd gone to Meredith.

"Meredith? I've never heard of it. Is it a festival?" They asked.

I gasped, and flapped my hands around a little bit, and took a deep breath and began to talk very excitedly about the weekend and how much of an amazing scene it was and the myriad ways in which I loved it. So I figured, if I've still got that much energy and excitement when I talk about Meredith 2012, then I might as well jot some of it down on the internet for ... posterity, perhaps? At the very least, I feel like it'd be a shame to write a long-winded post about the Friday night, then to omit all talk of the Truly Amazing Things That Occurred on the Saturday.

Of course, Saturday didn't really start in earnest until afternoon rolled around and the sun began to go down along with the temperature. That can be in part attributed to the insane heat and the sun bearing down on us all like some smartass jerk ("JUST YOU TRY AND AVOID ME!"), and partly because I woke up feeling like pure, undiluted rubbish. This - for those of you playing at home - comes with a word of warning for all kidlets and and for those of you who plan on drinking a beer any time in the future, ever.

Do not, under any circumstances, buy Rivet. It's Aldi beer, with a price tag that equates to $1 per can. With a name that refers to metallic construction tools rather than tasty beverages, I guess one has to expect the worst. Cheap yes, convenient yes, yes it suited my budget. But oh lord, did ever taste like shit. Or rather, it didn't taste like shit. It was devoid of taste. And it then left me with a hangover I in no way deserved. Saturday night was FAR bigger and FAR rowdier and FAR more filled with activities conducive to feeling like rubbish in the morn, but I woke up feeling right as rain (and in a monster suit). Post-Friday night, I felt like some sort of dark goblin of nausea had made a home in my stomach and was hosting some sort of circle pit of doom in there.

As a result, I spent most of Saturday attempting to find shade, attempting to nap, and attempting not to mostly look glum. I paused that bizzo briefly to rock out to Royal Headache with Dane, but that was about the most noteworthy thing that happened before a nap back at the campsite. For the record Royal Headache were flippin' great, even if Ferg did later declare them to be "FUCKING SHIT". Personally, they were exactly the kind of don't-give-a-shit rocking midday wake-up set that I needed.

In any case, the moral of the story is thus: DON'T DRINK ALDI BEER.

I fuck up so you don't have to.

So like I said, we pick up the story in the early hours of Saturday evening, post-nap and post-baby wipe of face and arms to get rid of a few layers of dirt and post-get-into-monster-suit efforts (believe me, it was an effort to get out of that beach chair after that nap).

Neil whipped out a little tube thing of zinc and we set about putting lines on our faces, preparing for for the battle (see: party) ahead. The animal suits again were on and buttoned up with hoods and travelers at the ready. Meanwhile, Ferg had disappeared into his Taj Mahal of a tent. Saturday evening heralded the arrival of "Aunty Ferg", whom I'd heard so much about in giggled snippets, yet remained a tight-lipped secret. In fact, when I tried to peek into the tent to sneak a look-see, Dane suddenly leapt into flight and jumped in front of me. "NO. NOT YET. WAIT."

It was worth the wait, I'll say that much. Aunty Ferg emerged, towering and hairy, all blonde wig and rainbow socks and the most hideous purple dress you could possibly imagine. Rounding out that most excellent (sexcellent) image was Ferg's wasted, chuckling grin complete with missing a front tooth. I'm pretty sure my approval was voiced via an insane shriek of delight. 

With everyone in onesie, dresses, sequins and animal-print, we trouped back over to the amphitheatre. Where Friday night had been a party vibe, the electricity in the air on Saturday made it look like a mid-week catch up for a cup of tea in comparison. With beers in bags, we made our way towards the crowd and the music. Trundling monster-style past the campsites and the groups of costumed, hatted, onesie'd and wasted pals, and hearing the music of Saskwatch growing ever closer, I looked up at the sky and had the first of many moments that night in which I suddenly thought to myself, "HOLY SHIT. THIS IS SO AWESOME. I AM HAVING SUCH A FUCKING GOOD TIME." A grin plastered on my face, I took a swig of beer and felt rather goddamn pleased. Of course, that may have just been my distance from sobriety talking. 

The animal posse joined Aunty Ferg at the sunshine wave of party. I could attempt to describe what the vibe was as Saskwatch played and everybody danced and the sun was beginning to go down, but I honestly wouldn't be doing the scene any justice in the slightest. I scrawled down in my notebook the next day "SASKWATCH. DANCING. MOST GLORIOUS MOMENT, BLOG." if that's any sort of indicator of where I was at and where the evening was at. I do remember telling myself to take a mental picture of the sun going down and the lights going up and the image of everyone dancing. Again however, that may have just been my distance from sobriety talking.

Ferg was garnering some superb reactions as he danced his way around, with a flower behind his ear and red lipstick peeking from within his beard. Generally the reaction of the average punter was one that read "THE FUCK" followed by stunned followed by "OH, COOL!". The three-fold progression was something you'd have to have seen in order to grasp how truly hilarious it was. But believe me, it was amazing.

Speaking of amazing (SEGUE! SEGUE!), the sea of people had to be at least 50% clothed in costume/outrageous outfit/onesie. Combined with the loving, inclusive, incredibly friendly vibe of the amphitheater in general, it felt like any moment not spent dancing was spent being asked "what're you?" and then asking, "DUDE, what are you?". Animals, a convoy of bananas, sequins and colours abounded. Almost everyone was huggable. Further down the hill Dane and I spied a girl in a skin-tight purple jumpsuit. She'd stuck plastic bugs and birds and flowers all over her body. It was the kind of afternoon that, upon seeing in someone in a costume worthy of congratulations, you'd sprint over and congratulate them. So we did. Frog and monster boogied on over, but were stopped before we had a chance to speak by the girl in purple and her two very normal looking male friends doing a sort of crab dance around their esky and bags.

"WOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOP" they wooped, as they scuttled around with their hands as pincers. We did the same. "WOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOP". A few other people joined in, to the delight of the girl.

"YOUR COSTUME IS AMAZING."
"THANK YOU, SO ARE YOURS!"
"I LIKE YOUR BUGS!"
"WOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOP"

We returned to the posse to be greeted by Neil grinning underneath the bobbing tufts of fur on his guinea pig hood's face. "Double-dropped!" Ferg roared at me, demanding to know where I'd been during Big Jay McNeely. "I don't know, around? Sorry!" "I LOOKED FOR YOU WHY WEREN'T YOU AT BIG JAY MCNEELY." His super-rad lady was brandishing a thing (What're they called anyway? Tubes? Implements? Sticks?) of red lipstick, seizing every face in sight and making a sea of bright red mouths.

Out of nowhere appeared a bearded guy dressed in a biblical looking get-up, holding a long stick in one hand and a can of something in the other. "MY CHILDREN!" He bellowed. "COME ABOARD MY ARK! I CAN PROTECT YOU, CHILDREN!" 

Behind him danced about thirty people in animal onesies. It was a veritable summertime musical ark, being led by some sort of wasted Noah, holding a hand on a stick which was in turn holding a few glowsticks. We danced over. There were owls, a wolf, a whale, a bat, penguins, bears and giraffes and even a raccoon wearing a tie. Business raccoon. Making astute business decisions in between rummaging through bins with his opposable thumbs. My GOD.

"WELCOME ABOARD THE ARK!"

It's at this stage that things become a little blurry, that memories appear to become fragmented and severely out of chronological order. They also literally get blurry, with the vague recollection that at some point I thought the lights of the stage were on a deckchair, and with the Sunday-morning information that I was constantly trying to play-fight Ferg's pal Shamus. Regurgitator were on next, and I believe they were rad. Neil, Dane and I spent a long while scampering after Ferg as he marched/boogied through the crowd, equal parts dancing and yelling indecipherable things at people. To be in the wake of his destruction was equal parts something I'll not soon forget, and also barely remember. A guy in a frog hat was floored by being completely out-frogged by Dane. Neil's cloud of a guinea pig tail was garnering many a squeal. Three guys dressed as bananas. I began scampering off again. Primal Scream were on. It was time to dance again. "Do you think Bobbie Gillespie's wasted?" "I think he's in a perpetual state of wasted."

Like I said, memories disjointed and blurry at this point. We went to the bar. I scampered off, distracted by an attractive male wearing a beanie covered in bears. Back to the bar, suddenly struck by the terrible affliction where one can see lips moving and hear sounds coming out but cannot understand a godforsaken word. "I CAN SEE YOUR MOUTH MOVING BUT I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE SAYING." "Whosprivileged?" "Huh?" "Whosprivileged?" "What?" "Who's privileged?" Oh god. Was this a riddle?
"Who?"
Ferg leaned forward conspiratorially. "All of us."

My brain.

In the vehicle convoy line leading to the gates on Friday morning, I'd attempted to sock Ferg in the stomach. "NO. No fighting. Reb, I will NOT FIGHT YOU THIS WEEKEND" he'd said. That was obviously a fib, because there was a definite stacks on that occurred there on the grass of the Pink Flamingo. That was somewhere in between my visiting the guys on the couch for the umpteenth time (it's as if I was constantly just realising anew that they were there) then wandering down to Turbonegro with them, and again running after Ferg with Dane and Neil watching him roar at people. Literally, roaring at people. Were Turbonegro good? Maybe? Were they before or after Primal Scream? I'm not sure. My camera had run out of juice (film) at this point, so there's no real knowing what went on and in what order and at what point I my scampering morphed into stumbling.

I woke up with the vague sense that I must have been pretty annoying at some point to someone, but that's just because I'm used to that being the case at some point, sometimes. Was it actually the case? We'll never know. I do know that slowly our animal posse dwindled, and Ferg lumbered off into the night in a disgusting ruffled shirt, and before too long Dane, Neil and I were sitting on the grass attempting not to fall asleep. Conversation stumbled along, meandering in no real direction. We'd missed the "Onesie Party" that was due to occur at the "Big Tree" at "about like, 11:30ish". As the sun had gone down and the crowd hurtled ever further from anything resembling sober, the party time zone vibe so too had morphed, as had the musical stylings on-stage. We dozed on the grass, and I let forth with the occasional nugget of non-sensical word-vomit that resulted in instant embarrassment when it left my mouth.

I wandered off again, I lost my beanie, the guys went to bed, I wandered around a bit more, then I collapsed into my tent, with the dull disappointment in myself for tapping out so early (3am?) being overshadowed by the relief that comes with lying down and going beginning the process of passing out.

Sunday morning - without any Rivet within me - was cold and windy and felt pretty victorious. Victorious, and hungry, and in need of sleep. The campsite again looked like it was feeling the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse action comedy shoot-out. People all around wandered around toward the toilet-block, some coupling the tracksuit-pant look with the last-night's-costume look, to superb effect. Upon pausing to reflect on the superb sights one sees in the morning - Mystery men crawling out of tents! Knowing smirks! Some dude passed out under a car! Friends buying their weight in sausages and coffee while wearing a sleeping bag! - it's at this point that we can hit the fast-forward button. Fast forward through the clean-up, slowing down to enjoy the communal morning debrief of the previous night's antics. Ferris wheel make-out sessions! Cougar exploits! Getting too wasted to remember to hit on anyone! Dancing so vigorously you end up with cuts on your arms! Mixed-up confusion and wasn't the music so damn good!

Then we can hit fast-forward again, through the pack-up and the dismantling of feats of tarp engineering and K-Mart bought tents, and slow down briefly to observe the Meredith Gift. So dusty! So naked! SO many jiggling and jangling bits! Then of course, we can fast-forward to the car ride home, and the long journey back to the real world.

I compared notes with a pal who'd also been in attendance at the Supernatural Amphitheater on how we felt upon returning. Dazed? Lost? Confused? Really, really dirty and pretty sunburnt? All of the above? And that's why at Christmas when my uncle asked me how "that music festival was" my answer was riddled with wild gesticulations and a non-indoor voice. I can honestly say I haven't had a weekend like that in a long, long time. I haven't laughed like that, with such rad pals, to the point of not being able to breathe in ages.

On Sunday evening Mike had some friends from NZ over, and we all went out for dinner and a drink. I pottered around in a daze, a shell of my former self, barely able to communicate.

"Sorry guys, you've caught me when I'm not at my peak." I tried to explain. "I won't soon forget this weekend. But if I don't get some sleep soon, I think I'm going to die."

Onesie Menagerie and a Toothless Grin: Meredith 2012 PART 1

As Dane and I drove - or, as he drove and as I twitched violently in and out of snooze - back into Melbourne last Sunday, I felt strangely dazed. Lost, even. All these people, going about their day as if nothing at all out of the ordinary had occurred, as we returned from the most Marvelous Expedition in the country. It almost felt wrong that the world should continue as it once had, considering the two and a half days of hysterical laughter, sweltering heat, night-time adventures and glorious music that had just taken place. It felt wrong, but that may have just been my hangover talking.

The Meredith Adventure (2012 Edition) began at 5am on Friday morning. Truth be told I'd planned to start at 4:30am but as I'm wont to do, I heard my alarm and just kept on sleeping. So, I awoke again to the strains of my phone telling me Ferg was "Leaving now!" and fell out of bed cursing our bearded convoy leader for being so goddamned eager to get a good camping spot. Surely a 5:30 departure time was excessive.

NOT SO.

We (myself, Ferg, Dane, Neil and about twenty thousand tents) rolled into the town of Meredith at 8:30am to find it packed to the brim. The main road teemed with convoys of automobiles piled high with couches, tents and slabs. This was obviously the first wave of festival-goers; the campsite-acquirers. Everyone was laughing, wearing festival-gear and stocking up on last minute bags of ice, booze and snacks. I'd only had a couple of hours' sleep, and Ferg had kept me awake and alive for the journey so far by keeping me in a state of consistently cackling laughter, but it was upon arriving in Meredith that I actually began to feel properly excited about the weekend ahead. It was also clear that hitting the road as early as we did was not excessive in the slightest. Ferg, so tall and wise, had played this whole wake-up-early thing well. Stopping only to ease our bladders and partake in an early-morning beer though, we still encountered a single-file line of cars leading up to the gate that lasted at least two and a half hours.

The winding snake of cars and utes and buses and vans slowly slithered its way toward the party zone, with groups of pals piling out of vehicles after every brief few metres of ground covered. Dane, Neil, Ferg and I killed some waiting time by playing BOP IT!  and beginning the weekend's booze consumption. All around us, people had the same idea; some already in costume, most already brandishing a beer, you could almost feel the excitement drifting over the paddocks and through the trees along with the music blasting from cars. The entire weekend was ahead of us, the party times were still to come, the possibilities were pretty much endless.

"Is it too early to drop??"

The Tent Erection Team finally got through the gate, and finally trundled through the dust to the Blue Gums in order to begin construction of The Most Epic Tent Town Ever. That description's probably a little over-the-top, but certainly there were a fair few (quite impressive) tents. Incidentally, mine was the smallest and most wimpiest looking and least ventilated tent of our posse. For those of you playing at home, spending $20 at K-Mart for a tent equates to the exact opposite of camping luxury. Having said that though, when the gale-force winds hit on Saturday afternoon my tough and cheap little bulldog of a tent stood its ground, so I must have done something right.

At any rate, Camp Ass Cobra soon took shape. The guys even managed to construct a true feat of engineering, a double-tarp shade structure hoisted up using caribeenas, multiple epic ropes looped around trees, and Dane's two weeks of experience being a boy scout. Apparently, two weeks was all it took for Dane to become a true wielder of "mad knots".

The rest of the afternoon was whiled away napping, hanging, beering, and heralding the trickling arrival of the rest of Camp Ass Cobra's inhabitants, all of whom proved to be superb company. Friday trundled along as slowly as you'd expect in temperatures as unpleasantly high as those that beat down on us but sure enough, as the sun became ever so slightly less violent the prospect of party times and good vibes became clearer and closer on the horizon.

It's at this point that the whole chronology thing begins to get a bit hazy. I couldn't tell you when we decided to make the first real trek to the stage, arms laden with eskies and travelers. I'm not entirely sure when I put my monster suit on in readiness for the night ahead, in the same way that I know at some point Dane, Neil and Claire were suddenly all dressed as animals as well. Really though, who cares about what the hell order any of these events occurred in when the fact that they occurred at all is such a marvel to behold? Surely what happened when doesn't matter when you're sitting on a couch halfway up the hill drinking beer and listening to glorious music.

When I sing the praises of Meredith (which is often), one of the things I name immediately is the "vibe" of the place, the people and the entire event. While so much of so many other music festivals are spent attempting to avoid douche bags and dickheads, glaring at obnoxious children, and narrowly avoiding altercations with shirtless invisible-suitcase-carrying leftovers from Stereosonic, at Meredith I never feel like one runs the risk of having to deal with any of that. Perhaps I was just hanging out with the right people, or perhaps we were just partaking in the right sorts of activities, but I'm constantly floored at how friendly everyone is at Meredith. Standing or dancing or drinking on the hill, everyone just wants to be pals, to hang out and to have a chat and a beer. It's also the scene I'd vote Most Likely Place to Run Into Just About Everyone You Know.

To my delight, I found at the top of the hill two couches inhabited by a bunch of guys I've known for years through Mitts. Gazing over the amphitheater like kings Jackson, Luke, Sam and co. had acquired themselves the most glorious of vantage points, and with them had brought the comfiest of perches. Luke was giving free and enthusiastic headstand lessons to whoever wanted them, and Sam's limbs were covered in texta. "LOOK AT MY TATTOOS. I HAVE HEARTS AROUND MY NIPS."

Back to the animals, back to the couch, back in time to see Grimes (I would turn for Grimes, just quietly). The sun was going down, and she was wearing crazy face paint, and there was a bubble machine involved when Jess took my hand and led us through the crowd to the front, and soon enough we were all ready for the zone as party animals, all with beers for the road. We wandered around, sampled some music, hit Eric's bar, had a boogie, exchanged shouts of awesome-acknowledgement from other animal onesied up posses. We paused for corn, chicken and for Dane to attempt to dilute the near-undrinkable glass of sangria he'd been given as a reward for being a swell guy at the bar.

I've gotta say, when it comes to festival-posses, I'd be hard-pressed to find one as turbo rad as Neil, Claire (rabbit), Dane and Jess (human). Dane, most rad of amphibious creatures who shares my off-kilter and dark sense of humour, and Neil, most bad-ass guinea pig so adept at getting a good time started (if he were a pokemon, his special attack would be Get On It). And Ferg of course, but he proved to be Feature Attraction the next night.

I also learned something over the weekend: I tend to scamper off in search of adventures while at intensely enjoyable festivals. Maybe it's because every one of my senses was being over-stimulated and I wanted to see all of the pretty colours and say hi to everyone I knew and hear every damn band, but I definitely felt the need to wander off constantly. So Friday I flitted between groups of friends, always returning to the animal posse (favourites), always making pals during the journeys in between.

"HEY, DINOSAUR!" yelled a guy in a tiger suit.
"YO, TIGER!"
"I SEE YOU, DINOSAUR."
"I SEE YOU, TIGER!"
"YEAH!"
"YEAH!"

Eventually I ran back to the fence and beckoned the animals "JUMP THE FENCE, DANE! JUMP!" to join me on the hill with the guys on the couches. The seats were full, with eskies and cans littering the feet of the guys. Jackson stood by the tree, grinning and doing a slight jig, his arms and hands waving by his sides.

"Where's dickhead, Reb?" He demanded.
"Huh? Who?"
"Mitch. Where's MITCHELL??"
"Um. Perth?"
"Tell him he's a dick! Because he's NOT HERE."

Were the Sunnyboys playing? They may have been. A sea of people in the amphitheater throbbed along with the music. Neil looked every bit the badass guinea pig, beard and moves off-set by the squeal-inducingly cute cloud of a tail on his costume's backside. Claire was halfway between adorable and terrifying, all fluffy white bunny with evil, red, gleaming eyes. Dane was bright green.

Then it was time for Tame Impala.

My highlight of Parklife 2012 had been Tame Impala, without a shadow of a doubt. In fact, some of my Best Times and Best Boogies of 2012 all bizarrely and amazingly feature a Tame Impala soundtrack. So, along with Grimes - who was pretty good - the West Australian group were just about the only band I needed to see on Friday night. They didn't disappoint, and again Dane brought the skillz required to be a superb partner in rocking out.

Arms flailing and legs kicking, we jumped around and rocked out among the trees. You know, I used to hate dancing. Maybe I was dancing with the wrong people? Maybe I was dancing to shitty music? In any case, with a grin plastered on my mug, my green companion and I Rocked Out and Got It Done while Tame Impala melted our faces off with their tunes. I'm fairly sure we made complete spectacles of ourselves (we were a fair ways away from any big crowd or mosh), arms linked and spinning around in circles, but gosh-darn-fucking-damn was it ever a good time. I challenge you not to dance to this:

Anyway, at the set's end (APPLAUSE! YELLING! SCREECHING APPROVAL!) Dane declared he'd head back to Camp Ass Cobra to join forces with Neil again. I opted to have a few beers with the guys on the couch, and told him I'd meet him at the campsite momentarily. Famous last words. I should have known, right? It's always when you say, "I'll meet you at the big tree in five minutes" or "I'll just see you at the campsite in like, ten" that something goes horribly wrong. And of course, it's only when you're at a festival and you think to yourself, "Fuck, I'll never run into those guys again!" that you end up seeing those guys at every turn. 

And so it came to pass that I fucking for the life of me could not find Camp Ass Cobra. It must have been a sight to behold, a girl in a monster suit stumbling around in the dark looking up at the treetops in order to find a goldfish kite (our camp marker). I did loops and loops of what I thought was our camp road, cursing how dark it was and how un-sober I was. To the strange soundtrack of Syrian DJ Omar Soleyman I resigned myself to the fact that I'd be staying awake all night and that I'd hunt for camp when the sun reappeared. 

And of course, it was once I resigned myself to that and returned to drinking with the guys on the couch that I ended up walking back with Sam and finding the campsite almost immediately. Such was my relief to find Camp Ass Cobra, and to see Dane and Neil milling about that I screeched with happiness. 

"GUYS. GUYS. OH MY GOD. GUYS, I FOUND YOU."

In turn, the guys obviously thought I was freaking the fuck out. 

"Reb. Cool your jets. Are you okay?"
"YES. I FOUND YOU! I THOUGHT I'D BE WANDERING AROUND FOREVER."

Words cannot describe the relief I felt.

The rest of the night was spent wandering around as a furry posse of three, and taking a ride on the ferris wheel, which actually turned out to be more exciting than initially anticipated. We went around a bunch of times, admiring an admittedly pretty epic and beautiful view, and even got to see some carnies crack the absolute shits at some people in another carriage. 

For those of you playing at home, a onesie is a truly amazing investment. Not only are they
epic, but they're also super warm and just about the most comfortable thing you could ever hope to wear.

Here's what's great about Friday night at Meredith? As everyone wanders back to their campsites at 4am, as you fall asleep in your monster onesie, you realise as you drift to sleep that THERE'S AN ENTIRELY NEW DAY TOMORROW in which all adventuring and partying and getting it done can be achieved AGAIN, but BETTER. It's like a surprise Christmas. Yeah, that was cool. In that case, HOW BOUT WE HAVE A BIGGER TIME TOMORROW? Amazing. 

In any case, expect Part 2 tomorrow. Featuring bearded men in dresses, a dancing ark of animal onesies, and hallucinations. 

One or Two Things About Mitch

Underneath all the insults and punching there's a real love.

"You looked really nice tonight."

"What?" I asked through an obscene amount of lamb burger. Probably two mouthfuls' worth in one bite.
"You looked nice tonight Rebby." Mitch repeated, balancing the one-litre stein I'd stolen for him under his arm while he shoveled chicken nuggets into his mouth.
"Oh? Oh! Thanks Mittens, that's sweet of you to say."

With that comment, a genuine compliment given at a civilised volume and not littered with abuse (for instance: "You didn't look like shit tonight, dickhead"), I suddenly realised that Mitch would be leaving Melbourne to return to Perth the next day. Through the last few bites of my burger, I felt incredibly glum.

Some obnoxious birds began chirping, as the morning sun began to make itself known.

"FUCK OFF MORNING BIRDS."
"FUCK OFF, MORNING BIRDS!"

A large part of the blame for my having been AWOL from blogging activities for a such a long time recently can very easily be heaped on ol' Mitts and his long-awaited return to Melbourne. Perhaps my dearest and closest friend in the world, my darling companion through the mountains and the canyons, and certainly one of the few people who I can trust to always be brutally honest with me, having Mitch come to visit was definitely a big deal, and Cause for Major Celebration.

If we're being blunt, it was something akin to a ten-day bender.

Mitts spent his Melbourne sojourn sleeping in my living room, turning the heart of Castle Mega into what resembled a junkie crack-den oasis in the middle of a desert of leafy inner-city suburbia. The few nights we didn't head out into the night to make nuisances of ourselves, he'd be sure to burst into my room, knocking on the door with a "Reeeebbbbyyyyyyy...". After not bothering to wait for a response, he'd proceed to tackle me. Then he'd breathe on me, demanding I guess what he'd been eating and drinking over the course of the night.

"BEER. You were drinking BEER, MITCH."
"And I ATE A PIE, REB. A PIE. HEEEEEHHHHHHHHH."

Of course, when I wasn't being punched out of near-sleep by Mitch, I was being a menace to society with Mitch. Dinner, drinks, drinking with pals, hitting the cinematorium, and throwing a (literally) very messy party. Suffice to say, I didn't get a full night's sleep during the entire time he was over.

Mitch arrived at my door a bruised, battered and newly-tattooed corpse, straight off the plane after a sleepless few days at Bar Week in Sydney. Haggard and with a leg covered in fresh ink, he staggered into Castle Mega to the strains of my shrieking delight. Even if he lives on the other side of the country now, and even if our busy schedules and propensity to be easily distracted means we don't get to talk as much as we'd like, we immediately fell back into our familiar routine as if no time had passed at all. Honestly, when push comes to shove, there isn't really anyone with whom I can completely be myself with like I can with Mitts.

Before he arrived, I was hanging out in Alice's living room, talking excitedly about my dear friend's imminent arrival, and the party we'd be throwing, and the adventures we'd be having together.

"You guys are going to get married one day." Alice remarked matter-of-factly.

"What??" I nearly choked on my wine.
"You guys are going to end up together." She repeated. "When you're both old and you realise there's no one else better for you than each other."

I pondered that moment, mulled the possibility over for a moment.

"Yeah...nah."
"Why, Rebby? No one else cares about you the way Mitch does. No one else is there for you the way he is."

Well, she had a point. Mitch is perhaps the only person I know who I can trust will always give it to me straight, to always be there when I'm most in need, and to always actually find my shitty jokes amusing.
Then again...

"Nah. Just...nah."

The thought of being ... intimate (the very typing of that word makes me feel kind of gross inside) ... with Mitch now fills me with a kind of repulsion. It'd border on incest. It'd make everyone involved vomit profusely. That's the sort of relationship that we have now. I said as much to Mitch the night he arrived back in Melbourne. He threw is head back in loud, cackling laughter. Agreement laughter. It's an idea too absurd to contemplate.

We met in 2008, at our friend Tim's nineteenth birthday. We were at Bang, or Switch, or Poo, or whatever the fuck that awful night at that awful club was called back then. I don't know who spoke to who first, but I do remember a red bandana and a Top 5 Films list that must've been at least slightly worth remembering. Certainly it was worth a phone number request from one of us. The rest, as they say, is history.

One from yesteryear, of us obviously looking our best.

So ensued rollicking number of months of hungover mornings, uni days and beer-filled nights. Much of it was spent in apartment Sevin-Oh-Eight, an inner-city shoebox with stained carpets, and always a body or two passed out on the couch or in the hallway. I'd sneak in through the back of the Chinese restaurant underneath the apartment block so as not to buzz the slumbering boys into the rude world of the waking. Looking back, it was a romantic relationship that was essentially just a great friendship, one that feigned at boyfriend/girlfriend-dom by the trips back to familial houses, and a bit of sex. He gave me a crash course in the world of skate videos, I brought him the occasional morning hot chocolate. He'd wake me up in the middle of the night to make me watch some awesome long-take, I'd store film equipment in his living room. He'd forget my media screening, I'd write passive aggressive verses on his scripts, then we'd make a night of shooting nerf cannons up a stairwell. He was a superb partner in crime through the world of parties and the cinema, but all too soon it became clear that our skill sets (when it came to each other) were better suited to being a great friends, not attentive and loving partners.

Years have passed since that stage of our relationship. Some were puzzled at first that we were attempting to remain friends, which I suppose is understandable. But as we both rampaged our way through new relationships and overseas adventures and intensely fluctuating hair length, we remained constants in the others' lives, and I guess everyone around us kind of just got used to the fact that we were still as close-knit as we'd ever been. In fact, we were probably closer. Even my mum's view of Mitch morphed from describing him as "that Mitchell boy" to excitedly asking after a Skype session, "Rebby, how's Mittens going? Give our love to his family!".

Perhaps it's because if it ain't broke, don't fix it. Perhaps it's because we've both shotgunned roles as Best Man at our respective weddings. Or perhaps it's because at this stage, we know far, far too much about each other for us to find the other remotely attractive in that way ever again. Without the pressure (for lack of a better term) of attempting not to be a shitty partner to the other, somehow we'd crossed a line into the most non-judgemental, honest, laid-back friendship imaginable. Frankly, it'd take something tantamount to mowing down a village of puppies with napalm for us to lay down any negative judgement on or think any less of each other. Our relationship has seen one support the other through everything from depression to infidelity, from overseas adventures to potential parent-dom, from junkie exes to existential crises. With the absolute and all-encompassing honesty of our friendship so too has come no-holds-barred brutal honesty, albeit the kind of brutal honesty that's always been devoid of judgement. So far, nothing's been devastating enough for our opinion of each other to have been altered.

Put it this way: we've seen each other at our absolute worst, at complete rock bottom. And we haven't been repulsed at what it looks like. I've thrown up in Mitch's bathroom sink and left the evidence. In turn, Mitch has almost thrown up on me many a time. Mitch has looked after me after I've broken my arm and after I've had my heart broken. His family's let me hang out at their place (multiple days in a sleeping bag suit) while I scowled my way through the post-holiday blues. I've written jokes for Mitch, put up with dozens of flaky moments, and guided him (read: laughed at his shitty decision-making skills) through any number of ridiculous sexual and romantic misadventures. He listens patiently to my stories of woe, and tells me when I'm selling myself short. I call him out on his shit, and high five him when he's victorious. Mitch has forgotten to return phone calls for what seemed like aeons. I've disappeared off the face of the planet for months. Frankly, I'm a little puzzled by his newfound Western Australian persona of "Rummy". He doesn't hold back when it comes to assigning sarcastic nicknames to the guys I see. We're completely aware of the absolute worst things the other has done. And all of that has been completely okay.

So, Mitch came to Melbourne and kept me awake for ten days. Almost immediately after he arrived, we threw a party. We wrestled on a living room floor covered in the remnants of tropical punch. There was passionfruit on the walls, chairs were broken, and a breakdance battle occurred on in the living room. We were probably completely obnoxious and I'm sure at no point did we communicate in anything less than a yell. We laughed hysterically and skidded across the floor in a punch bowl, and I woke up in the morning on Mitch's junkie mattress on the floor with Krispy Kreme carcasses all around us. Bleary-eyed and still wearing shoes, I awoke feeling elated.

I was fully aware of the hangover that lay in store for me, but I was also incredibly aware that the next week or so would be spent hanging out with one of my favourite people in the world. Mitch is also one of the more infuriating, frustrating and exhausting people I'll ever know, but perhaps that's why I've never come close to becoming bored or sick of his company.

I punched Mitch in the side.

"FUCK OFF."
"Dickhead."
"Cunt."
"Douche."
"Bitch."
"Dick cheese."
"Love you."
"Love you too."

Roadtrip Lessons

Welp! I'm back. Just like the near-run/bound/skip back down Mt Kosciusko, the ride back to Melbourne seemed to take a fraction of the time it took to get to our destination/chalet/couples' retreat. Maybe its because I didn't spend the first half crammed into the back seat with two other people within a tiny car. Maybe it's because we passed the time listening to episodes of This American Life. Maybe it's because I knew that soon I'd be home and showering and in my own bed. Not that it wasn't a lovely, fun-filled weekend of course - but there really is a lot to be said for one's own bed, and for being able to watch the latest offering from The Walking Dead. 

You know, if I had my laptop and a slightly less temperamental internet connection, I may have just stuck around. Because it was an incredibly lovely and beautiful house in gorgeous surrounds, with a large and luxurious shower. With the addition of The Walking Dead, I'm sure I would have been pretty much opposed to heading back to civilisation. But that's neither here nor there.

The weekend was really lovely. It was incredibly relaxing, it was full of delicious food, it was filled with good times. I slept enough, I read a lot, I did a bit of writing, and I unwound enough to actually forget what day it was, and to let my phone run out of juice. All in all, a successful weekend.

In any case, I realised THREE THINGS on this weekend away across the border.

1. I've been running around the shiny streets of my neighbourhood recently, and this seems to be helping. 
This isn't to say that I've become shinier, or that I've suddenly invested in a number of rabbit-fur vests and a series of botox injections. Rather, I mean to say that I have become LESS UNFIT. For someone who spent the first basketball game of the season wheezing up and down the court and damn near passing out, the realisation that death in fact is not near after a few minutes of activity is very pleasing indeed. I bounded up the mountain, ahead of the pack. Of course, it was hardly the toughest hike in the world by any stretch of the imagination, but I barely broke a sweat throughout the entire walk. And then, I ran much of the way down. RAN. Very pleasing indeed.

2. More and more, I'm enjoying quiet nights of moderate booze, amazing food, and good television programming more than Ridiculous Nights Out. 
Perhaps it was because we were spending time with a number of people ranging from about five to twelve years older than us, or perhaps it was because I had some serious George R. R. Martin to be get through. But man oh man, if you were to ask what my highlights were for the weekend, I'd reply with wild over the top descriptions of the food we ate, the mountain we climbed, the many hours I spent reading, and the stellar run of programs we watched on ABC. Louis Theroux! Q&A! Louis Theroux while eating dessert? Holy smokes, I'm in heaven.
I'd be lying if I said I'd completely deleted crazy shenanigans from my schedule, but I have of late found that I'm increasingly prone to getting major kicks from a glass of wine, doing some actual cooking, and then watching a whole lot of The West Wing. The weekend just gone only served to remind me of that interesting fact.

3. There's nothing like being surrounded by four couples to constantly remind you of how very single you are. 
Don't get me wrong - I'm not complaining. I revel in my singledom. I enjoy it thoroughly. I am also fully aware of how quickly I become sick of people when I spend too much time amongst them, let alone if I were to spend all of my time with one person. So that ain't no thang. What I'm referring to is the feeling you get when everyone's paired up on the couch, with their arms wrapped around their significant other and you're on the single couch with a novel called A Dance With Dragons. It's not a feeling of loneliness, or of jealousy. It's more a slightly amused pondering along the lines of, "Man, I am such a leftover at this point in time."
In no way am I implying that I was ever excluded by my pals. However, the fact is that when you're away with a bunch of couples, the singles are always the easiest to put in the shitty room with the tiny bed. It makes sense! If you're a couple, you need a bed that fits two! A single person needs one! And so, the single people are relegated to the mediocre room. I tell you what, it might actually be worth pairing up with someone just so each of us might be able to taste the large-room fruits of coupledom, as well as save a bit of money on booze.
"Darling, do you want a piece of toast?"
"Piglet, do you know where my sunnies are?"
"You burnt the crumble! This might be the worst crumble you've ever made."
I adore my friends, but I think the fact that I viewed much of the weekend as an anthropological sight-see into the realm of many couples is a sign that I'm not in the right place to team up with someone romantically. Or maybe that's a lie, and I was just relieved that since I wasn't part of a cooking "team", I didn't have to tackle dinner and was instead put in charge of "cheeses and snacks". Cheese and snacks I can handle, dinner for ten I cannot.

I Tell Shitty Jokes Now

Contrary to the constant reassurances of my friends that I'm mistaken, I personally don't think that I'm particularly cool. In fact, I'm fairly certain that a lot of the time I'm decidedly uncool.

Along with being more or less in a constant state of uncoolness, I'm also wont to be awkward as hell. I'm prone to saying ridiculous things, as well as finding joy/humour in really, really inappropriate situations. I won't for a moment attempt to convince you otherwise, as by now I'm sure the extent of my clumsy hilarity is probably common knowledge.

Look, it's who I am. I was #bornthisway ... for lack of a better term.

Perhaps (definitely), this is why I'm prone to super skeptical irritation when I hear a very pretty, obviously super cool lady squeal in embarrassment, "Oh, I'm so AWKWARD!". I think to myself with a scrunched up face, "Bitch, please."

Bitch, please. 

Have you ever fallen down two flights of stairs because you couldn't get your hands out of your pockets in order to steady yourself?

Have you ever been running across a bridge and fallen through it and had one leg dangling into a river?

Have you ever dropped a plate full of avocado all over a client's jacket at work?

Have you ever asked someone who said they want to be an actor, "What kind of end boss do you have to battle in the video game of that?"  

No, I don't know what I meant by that either.

You know what though? It's okay! I don't mind. I bring laughter to all those around me. I keep myself amused, I know that for sure. Rumour has it that I brought a hell of a lot of humour to the workplace I just recently left. And, as my dear friends constantly stress to me, I'm apparently much cooler than I give myself credit for. I'll try to take their word for it, but frankly I remain mostly unconvinced. Which is okay, because I am quite comfortable with the myriad ways in which I constantly fail at being socially able.

Let's be honest: at this stage of the game, I don't think my parents'd have the time, money and effort required to keep on paying my friends to hang out with me, if that's what they'd been doing from day dot. I highly doubt that. So let's assume I'm doing at least something right.

The reason I mention all that is because I was recently asked by someone:

"So why are you telling all these shitty jokes now?"

Well firstly, this is a new-found skill (I use the word "skill" very loosely here). Certainly, it's one that does nothing to diminish my awkwardness and propensity for giving the impression that I'm a little on the strange side, but I'll call it a skill nonetheless. For a long, long time I knew a grand total of one joke. One whole joke. I think I learned it from a Monty Python sketch, and it goes like this:

Q: What's brown and sounds like a bell? 

A: DUNG!!

I'd bust it out far more often than is socially acceptable. Soon however, everyone knew that DUNG!! was my one joke, the one thing I was able to bring to a conversation about shitty jokes. I hate to be a one-trick pony, but for the life of me I just couldn't work out how to tell a joke. Goddamn, how do you remember them? HOW? 

Oh, the woes! The despair that I felt, at my inability to remember any jokes in order to nab me some instant laughter karma in a social setting amongst other people sharing shitty yet hilarious jokes! It was incredibly disheartening. I figured it was my destiny to never be known for a master teller of jokes. Sure, I have plenty of hilarious stories. Sure, whatever. Anecdotes, shmanecdotes. What if I want to tell a joke? A "Did you hear the one about..." or a "X walks into a bar..." or a "Knock Knock!" joke that extends further than an interrupting cow? No dice. No dice at all.

Then suddenly, up to my desk strode my saviour in all things joke-related, my teacher in the ways of having a steady and unforgiving arsenal of yuk-inducing funnies. I suppose Ferg and I were inevitably going to win from our strange union (aside from the fact that we're you know, friends). I would gain much-needed exposure to epic, epic joke-telling. In turn, Ferg would get the satisfaction of sending me into hysterical cackles or painful groans (or both) at his ridiculously shitty/daggy/pun-ny jokes while he'd grin victoriously at my reaction.

Every day Ferg'd tell me another joke, either a one-liner burst of wordplay, or a long-winded epic tale that lasted for suspense-filled minutes only to be finished with the most anti-climactic punchline known to man-kind.

And so, each day I'd arrive home and share my newly acquired nugget of lulz to Mike, the obvious guinea pig for gauging how much work my delivery would need in the Real World. Either the joke would go down a treat, with Mike sending his palm to his face in disgust while laughing in spite of himself, or with the punchline being ruined by my uncontrollable giggling. Whatever way the cookie crumbled, it was funny shit.

As time went on, my confidence grew. I busted out shitty jokes whenever humanly possible, and rarely when socially appropriate. Meeting a pal's new girlfriend? SHITTY JOKE. Hanging out with fairly cool people you've not seen in a long while? INDUCE BEMUSED LOOKS AND AWKWARD GROANS.

Did you hear the one about the cowboy who bought a daschund? 

He wanted to get along, little dogie! 

This continued, with me riding high on a cloud of face-palm confidence, leaving a trail of groans, chortles and destruction in my wake. I gained a reputation amongst my close pals, one for arriving at a party and promptly asking someone if they like dragons. You do? Well, you're gonna love it when I'm DRAG'ON THESE BALLS ON YO' FACE.

And so, a few weeks ago it came to pass that a night was spent at a bar with Mitts and a number of pals. It was a night that contained sufficient alcoholic lubrication of my confidence to enhance any belief in my Completely and Utterly Irresistible Charm and Wit. I honed in on an attractive male and proceeded to attempt to flirt with him. Of course, given the schtick I'd come to enjoy so much of recent times, I'm using the world "flirting" very loosely in that "flirting" equated to "telling awful jokes".

The immediate problem was easy to spot: my slight inebriation combined with the fact that I was a little distracted by this particular male's attractiveness meant that towards the end of the joke's long-winded (yet entertaining) set up, I forgot the damn punchline.

To make matters worse - apart from the fact that I'm The Worst at this sort of thing - I ended up telling him that I forgot the damn punchline as soon as the thought entered my head. Judging by the look on the guy's face though, he apparently thought my exclamation of, "Shit, I hope I remember the punchline in the next minute!" was meant to actually be a part of the joke itself. One could almost hear the gears whirring in his head as he struggled to figure out how that statement fit into a story about Quasimodo interviewing replacement bell-ringers before he went on vacation. Undeterred though, I stormed ahead. I stormed onward, right until I got to the punchline in earnest, and still couldn't remember what the fuck Quasimodo said to the cops.

"Damnit! I can't remember!" I yelled.
The attractive guy stared at me a moment, in confused silence.
"Uhh...wait. Is that it?" he asked, looking bemused.
"No. Shit. Um. I can't remember. Hold on. I'll remember."
I clutched my beer and racked my brain while Mitts stood a couple meters away, stifling hysterical laughter.
"NO. WAIT. I'VE GOT IT. QUASIMODO SAYS TO THE COP, 'I DON'T KNOW WHO HE IS, HIS FACE DOESN'T RING A BELL.' HIS FACE DOESN'T RING A BELL!"

Mitts looked at me as if to say, "This is truly one of the stupidest things you've done in a long while"
The attractive guy smiled politely through his puzzled expression.
"That's pretty funny." He said.

I took a swig of my beer.

"Do you want to hear another one?"

He considered the question for a moment.

"No...not really."

In that moment, Mitts erupted into that loud, cackling laugh that makes us such a force to be reckoned with when we're watching a movie that's in any way amusing, his head thrown back as he struggled for breath.

Welp! There was the answer. Why am I telling these shitty jokes now? Because whatever the result of my efforts, it's bound to be hilarious for someone.

I looked at the attractive guy, then at my beer, and then at Mitts. I spluttered into hysterical giggles. My god, is there no way for me at least a little bit suave? Apparently not. Which is cool. It's cool, because given what I've been doing for the past few weeks is basically a move in actively distancing myself from anything resembling coolness. I'm fairly sure my parents aren't paying my friends to hang out with me, which is cool. It's cool, because I'm almost certain I'm prone to enough hilarity to avoid complete and utter failure most of the time. With the power of shitty jokes on my side and with Ferg's arsenal of material at my disposal, I am almost certainly bound for glory.

Why did the scarecrow win an award? 

BECAUSE HE WAS OUTSTANDING IN HIS FIELD. 

A Birthday Video

We still don't have the internet.

Apparently our phone lines are unqualified for any and all tasks a phone line must undertake. Frankly, I don't think we'll have the internet any time soon. While I am still enjoying the lack of distraction and the fact that I don't spend hours every night on Reddit, it's beginning to wear a little thin.

Furthermore, not having access to the internet meant that it was more than a little difficult to upload the following video in time for my dear friend Karin's birthday.

But no matter! After a trip back to the familial abode to visit my brother and Elvis, the video made it onto the 'tubes in the end, with plenty of hours to spare on Karin's day of birth.

Anyway, feast your eyes on the cavalcade of good looking people I call my pals! I unfortunately didn't take part in the "market shoot", seeing as I was in the throes of a horrid hangover; the one that inspired my last post, as it were). This is partly the reason I'm not drinking for a month. (A task that's proving to be quite difficult given the amount of shindigs my pals have organised for the next month, thanks for asking)

 

Look at this Fucking Hipster.

Amongst many of my male friends, I'm considered to be (occasionally) a bit of a hipster. All things considered, I don't think I really am. I mean, it's really a case of the guys being quite metal, and very anti-hipster, and thus my shaved head and sense of fashion and propensity to carry a Penguin classic and Moleskine in my bag rather stands out at times. Amongst my university friends however, I don't stand out in the slightest. Apart from the fact that I'm often yelling.

So although I'm "token hipster mate" to some of the guys, it was with some relief that Dave (perhaps the most vehement in his hipster-hate) has said to me, "You're not that hip."

Anyway, this weekend just past us some friends of ours, Stefan and Louna, held a joint birthday party. Known for their extravagant parties with hilarious themes and over-the-top decorations, it was clear from the get-go that if you weren't in a costume (and an impressive one at that), you would be labelled Major Dudd.

Thus, I thought it only natural to go to said party as a superhero of my own creation: Super Hipster.

In preparation, I traipsed over to Brian's for some dress-up fun. After all, his wardrobe can only be described using words like, "black", "fashion-forward", "drapey" and "hip".

I mugged for the camera, hipster-fucking it up, all of which I'd like to say was quite horrid and painful at times. Even Brian descended into giggles, declaring that "YOU FUCKING HIPSTER, that is disgusting."

Behold:

It may be testament to Brian's superior hip-dom that I was unable to navigate his Complex Geometries. I struggled for many whine-filled minutes until he came to my aid.

 

In the end I decided to borrow Brian's Limedrop shirt/cape/thing, and to make the costume overly humourous, as opposed to just a layer-ful drapey concoction of hipster designs. I had a feeling the latter would result in the guys completely missing the joke as I'd be looking pretty much as I always do, just more black.

So I bought a shirt, I made Super Hipster's emblem (S H wearing ray-bans), I made a utility belt.
I was hip-matic, with the following accessories:

• Hair pinned up, with sunglasses on my head.
• Two giant bows on my pinned up hair.
• Birth-control glasses on my face.
• White sunglasses on my belt.
• A copy of "Howl, Kaddish and Other Poems" by Allen Ginsberg on my belt.
• My Diana+ plastic camera.
• A Michel Foucault badge.
• Some weird bow-tie I bought years ago.
• Scarf on my belt.
• Stupid tights ("They're pretty fucking bad." was someone's assessment.)
• Irony mark on my arm.
• Pouch containing a Sharpie, an iPhone and iPod.
• Moustache drawn on my finger in preparation for glorious photo-ops.

Needless to say, upon arriving at Dave's (be-suited, as he was going as Scarecrow) he burst into disgusted laughter, declaring how horrid my get-up was. I could only agree.

We made our way to the party, picking up TD (A Ninja Turtle) and Tegan (the evil witch from Sleeping Beauty or something similar) on the way. However, we had to make a pit-stop at my place of place of employment in order to pick up the birth control glasses (which our manager had bought Brian as a joke). I scampered into the store, my utility belt accessories clanging all over the joint, and at that moment I realised I'd forgotten that customers would probably be dining there (it was a Saturday night after all). 

I burst in the door, to a utterly bewildered look from Jailbait, something between confusing and horror from dining couples, and laughter from other co-workers.
"IT'S A COSTUME, GUYS!!" I insisted.

The party itself was a roaring success. The decorations were somewhat mind-boggling, the vibe was great, and almost everyone had put real effort and thought into their costumes. There were two Poison Ivys, Harvey Birdman, some Power Rangers, a Banana Man, Scooby Doo, Duke Nukem, Hit Girl, and even a (perhaps my favourite) MacGyver, complete with a belt containing gum, matchsticks, string and some safety pins.

The reception my costume got? Considering it was a made up superhero, I at times had to explain what exactly I was ... but once I did, the reaction was invariably the same.
"UGHHHH!!!!! Oh my god, I get it! That's so bad!!!!!"
"YOU FUCKING HIPSTER!!!!"
"I know right? Can't you tell by my book of poetry?"
"EUUUURGHHHHHH!!!!!!"

In fact, I was standing around with a mate, Aaron, showing him my various hip accessories. After a few moments he stared at me, horrified, knuckles white around his beer.
"DUDE. I think I kind of want to punch you."

What's funny though, is that at this particular party I ended up getting not one but two numbers from rather hip-seeming boys. What was it? Was the hip get up? Was it the fact that I was wearing make up for once? Usually I avoid wearing make up. It's an aversion I can probably trace back to the days of ballet, where I'd be forced to wear buckets of it, as well as entire cans of hair spray. I was all like, D: and started playing basketball instead. Anyway, I bought some bright red lipstick for the occasion, wanting to be properly immersed in my character.

Point remains though, that besides the disgusting array of mosquito bites on my legs, and the irony mark on my arm, I also emerged from the party with two potential suitors. All signs point to "HIPSTERS GET ACTION", but I don't know if I could possibly wear those glasses and those tights at all times. Or, I'd like to think that I can't.

D: