Valentimes

Hey, guys.

Valentine's Day is a strange one, isn't it?

I was going to have a good old fashioned ramble tonight. However, I know that I'd just be adding to the many, many piles of words that already exist about Valentine's Day and that resurface on Valentines Day if I were to say any of the following things:

• Oh my gosh, pals! Valentine's Day is just one big marketing ploy! 
• Valentines is such a waste of time! 
• Just take your lady out any other day of the year! Don't make it a token gesture because you fucking have to, guys. 
• Everything's twenty thousand times more expensive on Valentine's Day! Don't be a chump! 
• Laydeez, why the fuck do you care if your SO gets you something shiny on Valentine's Day??
• HNNNNGGGHRHRHRHRHRHR. 

So I won't say any of those things, because they've been said about a million times before, in ways and words far more articulate than I can be bothered mustering up at this hour of the night. 

I will say this though, and I'll try to keep it brief. The day puzzles me. It really does. I tried to explain as much to a few of the guys I'm working with at the moment, and I got a response along the lines of, "Are you just being a grinch because you're single?" to which I became suitably enraged because my argument was reduced to being the gripe of some pissed off singleton. 

It just seems like a giant waste of time to me. It seems like the time to wheel out a token gesture from the guys, and a shitty excuse to expect something shiny from the more princess-y girls. Dude, take your significant other out for dinner any other damn night of the year. I can say this honestly - every time I've actually had someone to spend Valentine's Day with, I've not wanted to do anything. In fact, if I remember correctly I actually think I spent a Valentine's Day a few years ago not with the guy I was seeing, but with a friend, watching shitty movies. 

I actually think I declared the February 14th to be "THE WHO RECORDED LIVE AT LEEDS ON THIS DAY IN 1970, SO IT'S WHO-DAY SHUT UP" at that point. Which is silly, but you know. 

Put it this way: if I were with someone today, and they suggested we go out of a romantic dinner, I actually think I'd almost be disappointed. Why are we going out for dinner? So we can be overcharged and be amongst all manner of insufferable couples? Please. I'd rather stay at home and hang out.

This is almost an exact quote, said yesterday by a guy I know. "It's good, I only have to take her out for dinner twice a year - Christmas and Valentine's Day. After tonight, I'm halfway there." I just think that's one of the stupidest statements I've ever heard, on a variety of levels. 

And before you say it - no, I'm not just peeved because I'm single. I do have the capacity to be hopelessly smitten and disgustingly enamoured. And I do have the capacity to appreciate romance. Sure, I can't abide public online declarations of love (EVERYONE LOOK! LOOK AT ME!), but I definitely appreciate romance. Hell, When Harry Met Sally is one of my favourite movies of all time. Case in point: today on the train coming home I watched the girl sitting in front of me grinning at her phone, attempting to stifle giggles at what were obviously messages from her significant other. That actually brightened my mood immensely, especially after having to deal with the usual peak hour public transport cluster fuck. That feeling of being shockingly smitten is an amazing one, and to see it physically manifested on someone's face - that put me in a happy place. What also put me in a happy place was watching the hoards of be-suited men carrying armfuls of flowers (and one guy with a bear almost as big as he was) onto the train. That made me legit laugh out loud at one point, but that's entirely different. 

What was definitely heartening and cause for rejoicing though, was the fact that upon leaving the office I realised how genuinely excited I was for a night by myself, watching a movie and having time to cook up a storm. I'd been invited to a "I Hate Valentine's Day" party by a friend from high school, but honestly - the thought of buying a bottle of wine and turning a mass of lentils into a mass of MY BITCH was too attractive to push to the wayside. Besides, I was fairly sure Miguel and Jaz were going to be out having a romantic night, so I'd be able to do all of the above in my underwear, while listening to Glen Campbell unaffected by shame. 

They're not, just FYI; walking into the house singing along to Tears for Fears I realised Mike was at home. That fact was initially somewhat irritating, but only for a split-second. As I finished off my dinner, Mike gave me a run-down of the bazillion course meal that he planned to cook for his lady, and I congratulated him with genuine applause. His Valentine's Day romance comes from a genuine place, that much is clear. He dumped about twenty thousand shopping bags full of ingredients on the kitchen bench, and I gave him a mental thumbs-up. But you know, if we're being honest ... I'm listening to the Louvin Brothers at the moment, REALLY LOUD. If you know what I mean.

That's totally not the point of this post though. The point I'm trying to make is thus: over the past couple of years, I've rediscovered how much I really, really enjoy my own company. If I'm being honest, I'd rather hang out with myself than most people. I don't have a significant other, at least in part because the thought of spending that much time with someone else isn't the least bit attractive. In years gone by, I'll have filled my time with friends and company because I didn't want to be by myself for that sort of extended period of time. Now though, I'd rather go to the movies by myself than with most other people. Having someone else in my bed means that there's less room for me. Other people talk during TV shows, and that I just cannot fucking abide.

I've had that realisation a few times in recent months, but it was nice to have it reaffirmed today. Seeing dudes carrying bundles of flowers, and watching a guy at work scramble to secure a booking at a restaurant, and watching the cavalcade of posts on Facebook, the overwhelming thing I felt was being torn between what movie I was going to watch upon getting home. That thought makes me happier than any thought regarding a significant other, and thank god for that. I'd be a shitty girlfriend. 

Blinded by The Top 5.

I've just returned from a gorgeous sojourn in Perth, which is something I'm sure I'll get around to blagging about in the very near future. Suffice to say, it was a superb weekend away in the sunshine, swimming in a sea of happiness and good times and tasty springtime beverages.

I'm sure it goes without saying that when I'm in the company of dearest Mitchell Mitts Kitton Mittons, talk inevitably turns to the wonderful world of the cinema. And as always is the case when I meet new people over a glass of wine or a cocktail or a beer, while in Perth I found myself very quickly turning to one of my all-time favourite conversation topics: Top 5 Films.

Does "The Movies" constitute my entire conversational repertoire? Sometimes I fear that it does. Hell, that conundrum in itself is probably worthy of a post. Certainly, I know I can always rely on that question (or demand, depending on my sobriety) to launch a conversation to a realm in which I know I'll be comfortable.

"What are your top five favourite films? Go. Now." 

At any rate, in recent times I've come to realise with some amusement that aside from relying on the Top Five to make conversation, I am also more often than not completely blinded the answer I receive. How? I am prone to judging a person ruthlessly, often unfairly, on their Top Five. It's a bad move, I know. I mean, what if someone just doesn't really watch that many films? What if they're an incredible person but they enjoy films that I despise? What the hell constitutes a Good Top Five anyway? Fucked if I know.

I do know this though however:

• In my travels, films most often placed in Top Fives are Schindler's List, Pulp Fiction, The Godfather, Inception and Fight Club. 
• Film students always take an extra minute to curate the list in their mind. 
• Top Five does not mean "the films you think are the best", it means "the films you would choose to watch over and over". 
• The quicker you answer, the better.
• Not giving an answer is worse than giving a shitty list.
• I find collecting lists of Top Fives are fascinating, in that I feel it gives a bit of an insight into a person's mind. 
• My Top Five-induced blindness means that more often than not I become infatuated with often awkward, usually dorky-looking nerds.

The one on the left, please.

• It also means that I have a propensity for dismissing those whose Top Five is laden with mediocrity. 

Here's just one example of my unjust rulings on those I meet. One night in Berlin I met a rather nice lad. Turned out he was from Melbourne, turned out he was studying film. Well, sweet! Conversation was rollicking along well, so I asked him for his list. His response was Blade Runner, Pulp Fiction, Pearl Harbour, The Matrix and one of the Lord of the Rings films. 

My face when.

Verdict: boring. For someone studying film, his list was ... Unimaginative! Underwhelming! Uninspired! His time was up. Sorry, pal. I wandered back to the bar, back to the crew I'd arrived with. Hell, he might have been a swell find! We'll never know though, thanks to my stupid standards when it comes to requisite good taste in Things. 

As soon as I say that though, I know that it's not a matter of "good taste" per se which decides who stays and who goes, but of a list that strikes me as Interesting. Yes, that's it. Interesting is what I look for, what the person being grilled must aim for. A girl I ended up traveling with for some time admitted to having a limited knowledge of film, but after she named five films she'd gladly be stuck on a desert island with, I only wanted to hang out with her more. Her list was entirely made up of animated films.

Take Dom, whom I met in Santiago. A well-spoken and intelligent guy, he very quickly proved to be most excellent conversation. We spoke about a myriad of things, so much so that it only occurred to me to ask him for hist list hours and hours after meeting him. He didn't disappoint. And here's the funny thing: amongst Goodbye Lenin!, Schindler's List and something old and French, was Love, Actually. In fact, I think he might've excitedly yelled "LOVE ACTUALLY!" immediately after I raised the question. Or take Sam, who ended up being my travel buddy through Bolivia. We met on the bus, and I asked him the all-important question. The first thing out of his mouth was The Mask, followed by something like Goodfellas. I instantly decided that I'd ask him if he was heading to Uyuni. He was. I'd go with him.

Falling victim to the lure of a good Top Five has led me to victory, a number of times. Hell, it brought Mitch to my attention (in 2008 his included A Boy and His Dog, something by Wes Anderson, and Casablanca) all those years ago. Quizzing Colin on our first day at school in Peru meant that I discovered his love of Star Wars and thus began a most enjoyable South American romantic escapade. 

But still, I know that this conundrum needs addressing. Sure, it provides a hell of a lot of amusement for those friends who are lucky enough to hear these stories of woe but I'll tell you this much for free; there's a lot of face-palming involved. A mention of Gregory Peck love and I'll pursue an otherwise incredibly uninteresting person for weeks. You read Shadows of the Empire? You just try to stop me from eating your face. I once dated a guy for couple of months before I saw past his fondness for Moon and Studio Ghibli to the fact that he excruciatingly dull and the most socially awkward person to ever grace the earth. 

"Yeah, Reb. He was a dud. We were wondering when you'd notice" was Dave's verdict.

Whilst in La Paz I met a lad, who had the best Top Five of anyone I'd met in South America so far. We spoke about anti-heroes, about the Golden Age of Hollywood, we talked about a script he was about to write, we talked of Robert Altman and screwball comedies. Then he told me he was 18. 

I related this all to Mitts, while he threw his head back and laughed at my misfortune and almost sitcom-esque self-induced fails. Even as I spoke however, I couldn't help but notice the tattoo on his friend's arm that bore a quote from The Big Lebowski. I later couldn't help but notice how he mentioned a love of Fern Gully. Intrigued? Check. Similarly, I instantly decided I liked Mitch's red-haired "Replacement Reb" after speaking to her about a shared hatred for romantic comedies, and a shared love of Casablanca and When Harry Met Sally. 

But shit, don't think for a moment that a Good Top Five is synonymous with They Like the Same Shit as I Do. Not at all. I hate Love, Actually. I didn't actually think Planet Terror was that good. I fell asleep during Seven Samurai. I think Titanic is awful, but its presence in a Top Five has meant instant approval in at least one list. A list entirely made up by the films I mentioned earlier that are always picked will make for a boring list. I want to know your quirks! I may have my snobbish moments, but hell, Star Wars and What's Up Doc? are in MY Top Five! Why don't you tell me how much you like The Omen or Jurassic Park or Withnail & I? Frankly, telling me how much you like The Princess Bride will get you more points than Citizen Kane. 

Anyway. That's my rant for the day. I'll go and do something constructive now.

Things, etc.

I'm not working tonight.
I'm not doing anything tonight.

The fact that I'm not doing anything tonight makes me very, very happy. I've got a date with a cup of tea. And by cup of tea, I don't mean "tea-bagging" or anything vaguely sexual or exciting (you dirty minded rapscallion), I mean "cup of tea".

I've increased my hours at the call center, so I'm now essentially working 9am till 10pm most days. Thus, it's become necessary for me to come up with new ways to break up my day. Besides gazing at Beard (who, incidentally, has shaved and therefore must be referred to as Moustache), I've begun jotting down the bizarre and dumb names I come across while interrupting dinners across Australia.

Last shift's highlights included:

• Tuna
• Leumth (pronounced "Lee")
• Jaisyn (Jason)
• And way too many vowels having been replaced by "Y" for me to handle.

Anyway. I wrote a review of Howl. You can read it if you'd like.

Expect a flurry of activity over the next couple of weeks. I'm attending a few preview screenings for various things, which I'll be rambling about as always on Cut Print Review.

Also, I'll be reviewing a bunch of shows at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival for RHUM, a site that is pretty great. 

So that's fairly exciting.

In other news, here are somethings I've been enjoying. Please for you to enjoy also.

Ten Sexy Ladies by Joshua Allen

A cat that looks like Lenin.

This trailer. (please, for the love of all that is hilarious, click it).

In addition to those, I read with great interest a particular post at Being Blanche. Not only was it interesting to note that the author was in at least one of my classes at uni (small world, etc), but I completely concurred with pretty much everything that post about dating culture in Australia.

Believe it or not, I went on a date last weekend. Or at least, I think it was a date. Given that I spend so much time with guys, my concept of a date is somewhat skewed. Look, I'm pretty sure it was a date. We got a coffee, saw a movie, got another coffee, wandered around the city and had a nice time. Before embarking on said date though, I noted with some degree of surprise that it had actually been a long while since my last "first date". As it turns out, the actual number of times I've been "Asked Out on a Date" have been minimal (at best).

I mean, the last guy I was in a semi-functioning (sort-of) relationship with was a friend of mine, who I began shagging, then discovered I really quite liked. As in, like like guys, isn't that, like, exciting? "Did you go on any dates?" you ask. No. "Tell me more, tell me more!" you reply. Well, we went to the movies a few times, but that's because we'd have probably gone to the movies together anyway, regardless of being shag-pals or not. In fact, with every guy I've hung out with/gotten few drinks with/made out with/shagged over the past few years, it has been with a constant raging battle to see who can give less of a shit. Or, seem to give less of a shit. Anyway, it was refreshing to hear these thoughts from another female.

If you're wondering if there'll be a "second date" (whatever the hell that means), then yes. Probably. He likes Neil Young and looks a little bit maybe kind of like Arlo Guthrie.

To the bearded guy at work,

What are you doing working at a call center?

You exude far too much cool to work at a hell-hole like the workplace we inhabit.

In fact, merely thinking about using the word "cool" to describe what emanates from you seems utterly inadequate and certainly decidedly uncool. You strut into the building, with your bag and your jacket and your hat and your beard. You strut, although it'd be a crime to suggest that you strut knowingly. I'm sure you strut only because there is obviously no other way for you to walk.

Do you average a hundred interviews an hour because even through a telephone it's obvious you're all about the effortless cool? I'm sure one and all of your "respondents" can hear your doesn't-give-a-shit swagger through the handset. I'm sure that they can hear your magnificent and obviously well-maintained yet effortless beard.

I am going to christen you Beard. You are henceforth known as Beard. I have known men as "Beard" before, but you now cancel out any previous Beards to be the new measuring-Beard.

Beard, I'm sure you have a band. The jeans and boots tell me that this is true. I'm sure you DJ as well. It seems only natural, Beard. I bet you play the guitar. You write the songs. You could probably sing them too, but you don't give a shit.

What are you doing working at a call center? I'm working at a call center because I need money for a trip to South America. Come with me?

I have two friends at work. I arrive after waitressing all day and I'm too tired to bother to talk to everyone. We talk on the phones all night, for poo's sake. Small-talk is not on my to-do list.

I have two friends at work, but I'm more than willing to let you be my third friend. During our break everyone goes outside and chats and hangs out and I sit down read my comic book and you stand next to me and smoke your rollies and they smell quite nice and I'd certainly have one with you if you asked, Beard.

You don't talk to anyone either, and that makes you that much more interesting to me, Beard. I saw that annoying girl with red hair talking to you and you looked kind of bored. Well done, Beard. I have red hair. And I'm interesting. Plus, I like your t-shirts. I also like your hat. And your beard, Beard.

I bet you're just the right amount of smartass, cynical jerk. If you don't like that band I'm fapping on about, you'd say so. I bet you're the right amount of argumentative. Every conversation is interesting with you Beard. You're cynical, but not too cynical. You're a smartass, but not too much. I mean, I bet you love metal but I bet you also love Brian Wilson.

I think I should ask you about your top five favourite movies.

I'd ask you, but once you were in front of me in the line to sign in and you said "excuse me" when you had to walk past me and I made a choking noise.

You're very distracting at work, Beard.

Sincerely,

Reb.

Irish Neil (One for Mitch.)

Mitch is probably my best friend. Aw. Isn't that nice? It is. He's pretty great. We get drunk then stumble down the street, yelling "THEY TOOK OUR JEERRRRRRRRBS". We loudly play "Marry/Boff/Kill" in restaurants. We tell Tony Scott to quit it with the whole certain shutter speed with fast moving shots thing in Unstoppable.

Then I saw on Facebook that he had "checked in" to a hospital, and that he was "swallowing" his own "face". Apparently something's fucked up in his throat, and he was choking on himself. Or something. So I rang him the next day, and he said he's a bit better. But he can't drink for a while. OH WOES! And he can't swallow. He also demanded that I post on this thing more, so he can read it more, and then laugh more. Well Mitch, this one's for you. I'm pretty sure you'll find some lols within it.

Okay. The scene. It's a pubcrawl through Dublin. I'm there with Karin, and we end up hanging out with Emma and Emma from Liverpool, and two American girls. One was called Abbey. I can't remember the other one. Emma and Emma were a laugh, they were superb. They were like Liverpudlian versions of Karin and I. Smaller Emma was Karin. She was smaller, quieter, and wont to order spirits. Taller Emma was like me. More prone to yelling, more prone to ordering large quantities of beer.

Anyway. It was a fun-filled, stupidity-inducing, alcohol-consuming night. Hilarity ensued.

We danced the ... rocket clock? I think? I'm pretty sure we cleared the dance floor with that one, at any rate. An old drunk tried to pick a fight with our pub crawl leader. Karin accidentally called our Irish tour guide "English". I spoke metal with Garvhan, he of long flowing very ginger hair. Then we ran into a guy I hung out with and went out on the town with in Belfast. A night out in Belfast with an adorable Canadian girl, and a macho, loud South African. Marie? Brad? Those were their names I think, but the entire night we referred to each other as "Canada", "South Africa" and "Aussie".

Anyway, that's besides the point entirely. We ran into fellow Aussie, of all places, completely by chance, outside the last club on the pubcrawl. The alcohol consumption partaken by both of us meant the reunion was one of flailing arms and excessive yelling. Didn't really help that he was absolutely and gloriously camp. I snuck him into the club, funnily enough, by pretending we were together. Maybe fifteen minutes of loud catching up later though, he disappeared into the night. I think he found a boy that struck his fancy. Gone, forever. For the life of me I can't remember his name. Hilarious though.

So. We're at this club. The Emmas had left. Karin was tired, it had been a large day. Plus, it hadn't been that long since Luke, her boyfriend, had returned to Australia, so poor Karin was still prone to occasional glumness. So even though it had been a completely drunkenly enjoyable night, things seemed to be winding down. Then I spotted him. In a club full of what seemed to be dudds and a cohort of drunken Australian males under the age of 20, he was skinny, quiet-looking. Neil, that was his name.

After a little while talking (yelling over the music) to him, a few things became clear. Firstly, that he was adorable. Also a little bit young. But then, Irish. For those who don't know me very well, I've proven to have a propensity for "jumping" the Irish. Secondly, that his quietness, his attentiveness, yet his complete inability to Make A Move was remarkably similar to the guy that was waiting for me back at home. Which only served to make young Neil that much more endearing. We chatted. For a quite a long time, considering how loud our surrounds were. By that stage though, Karin and Abbey had decided they wanted to bail soon. Karin looked dead on her feet, Abbey's friend had long since gone home with some Australian.

Artist's impression.

"Come on, Reb!" said Karin, "Do it! So we can go!"

Well, fine! I thought. If this complete clone of That Particular Boy at Home is just as terrible at making a move as That Particular Boy at Home, then I'd just have to take matters into my own hands.


Reb Style.

Reb Style.

"So. Neil. What are your top five favourite films of all time?"
I can't remember what he said. I remember them being pretty good though.

"So. Neil. Gimme your top five favourite bands?"
"Oh, you like The Band? Gimme your top five favourite songs by The Band!"
"Top five frontmen!"
"Top five favourite 60s pop groups!"
"Top five directors!"
"Top five Coen Brothers films!"

I could see Karin sitting with Abbey, could feel them watching and being halfway between puzzled and highly amused. I turned back to them. "I KNOW!" I mouthed.

Neil also looked a little puzzled, but mostly pleased.
"What ... what is this?"

"Okay. Your top five favourite albums."
He told me, and I grinned.

"HEY NEIL! You have pretty good taste in things.

WE SHOULD MAKE OUT." 

And so we did.

And Karin and Abbey were pleased. There was much rejoicing!

Then "Killing in the Name Of" came on and I danced around a bit, then I said good-bye to skinny, adorable Irish Neil.

And that's the story of the most drawn-out, stupid pick-up line ever.

Trolling the High Seas

This guy is an absolute champion.

Troll of the seven seas, marry me please.

My hero.

In fact, that's my new aim. Next romantic conquest will be someone as rad as that. That's what love should be, someone to merrily troll with.