After a long, long ordeal that isn't worth re-telling because it's a long, long, pointless story filled with sighs, Mike rang me this afternoon to announce "WE HAVE INTERNET"
I could hear his excitement through the phone. You know when you can hear a person pacing around excitedly, not knowing where to go or what to do, when you can hear a beaming smile?
That's what I could hear. Mike even confessed he'd considered biking over to my workplace in order to deliver the news in person. That's how momentous an occasion this is. Poor Miguel's been the one dealing with the phone company, the technicians, the real estate. He's been the one scrawling down reference numbers, then snapping when our case had been deemed "closed" by Optus. I have a bottle of champagne in my possession; frankly, I think it'll be popped open tomorrow.
The moment Mike told me of our connection to the world wide web however, began to giggle and screech like an insanely happy banshee upon hearing whatever makes a banshee insanely happy. I would guess that banshees also appreciate the myriad wonders of the internet. Who wouldn't?
I almost didn't want to go to the movies tonight, such was my internet-joy. Why would I do anything else when the promise of downloading things, of Reddit and pictures and interesting articles and pointless collections of gifs was so near? I'm glad I did end up hitting the cinematorium, because I am Eleven is really quite the enjoyable documentary BUT that's not to say that I didn't fidget in my seat while we got burgers afterward because I could FEEL THE POSSIBILITIES THAT LAY SO CLOSE.
Would you like to know what my immediate moves were? I suppose this says quite a lot about me, but no matter.
Firstly, I didn't even do the usual TAKE OFF CLOTHES AND PUT ON OVERSIZED TSHIRT AND TRACK PANTS maneuver I pull as soon as I walk in the door. Instead, I immediately sat down at my desk and opened Reddit. Then Facebook. Then Le Meme. Then What should we call me. Then I put on this video in the background:
YES. NEW MUSIC. NEW MUSIC TO ADD TO MY IPOD.
Then I began looking at ridiculous photos. I cruised through about four months' worth of smut and ridiculous inanity on Le Meme. For instance:
Then I went on Reddit some more.
Then I began to read all the things I wanted to read whilst at work but couldn't for fear of someone seeing what I was reading. My desk is one of those conveniently placed beasts, one that is in full view of just about everyone. It makes my day entertaining, because I have no shortage of visitors and lively distractions BUT it does mean that I've now committed to memory the different sounds of all my co-workers' footsteps. There's just something about the prospect of being caught reading The Vice Guide to Eating Pussy that isn't super attractive to me. And there's just something about being caught watching Gilbert Gottfried read 50 Shades of Grey that doesn't appeal to me either.
Seriously though, I suspect I'm way too excited about this whole internet thing than I should be. I must make sure to harness this energy into something constructive, and to steer clear of the slippery, slippery slope that starts with Reddit and ends with a weekend of poor hygiene, shitty food and about four days' worth of Tim and Eric videos on Youtube crammed into two sleepless nights.
I'm sorry. That's really no way to begin a letter. It's rude, and that is not what I am aiming for. My apologies.
Let's try this again, shall we?
Hi!
Long time no see!
How are you?
Really, tell me how you are. I genuinely want to know. Tell me stories, of your adventures during my absence!
I've been okay. Actually, if we're being honest (and believe me, the time has come for that) I've been pretty darn good of late. I earn money! I cook! My hair's growing out! Maybe it was the alarmingly long ponytail following me around that prompted me to follow up on you, my friend. That, and the fact that I ponder how close we used to be with an ever-increasing frequency. I remember when we were an inseparable, unstoppable duo; two badass hardass motherfuckers not to be trifled with. I know you remember too, those good old days. Glory days, if you will. I felt completely comfortable with you by my side, with your companionship and the fire in my belly that came with your presence.
Now...now I just feel awkward as hell when I'm around you man! Now I listen to a little too much Bruce Springsteen when I'm reminded of what we used to do and where we used to go. It's as disheartening as you can imagine, don't doubt that for a second. I shouldn't feel like that around you! Oh boy oh boy, is it ever sucky. Where once we'd talk endlessly about everything now I stare at my feet and fail to think of anything to say. I rack my brains for a conversation topic, an observation, a question, and I come up with donuts, a mighty zero. It pains me to be mute around you. Then again, it's not as if you bother to contribute to conversation, so you know. Cram it. Do you enjoy watching me flounder and stutter through small talk with you? Cram it twice.
I take that back. I'm sorry. I'm just nervous is all.
The fact of the matter is this: I let you down. My bad. That sounds flippant, but it's true. It's truly my bad. So, there you go. My bad.
I stopped calling you, I flaked out at every imaginable moment, I was forever defensive or hungover or impatient or broke and then I just became balls-out rude. For all of these things I could make up excuses, I could give long-winded reasons of why I morphed into a shitty pal and lacklustre partner-in-crime but I think the time for excuses came and went a long time ago. We stopped talking, and that's that. I actually stopped talking to everyone, but that's a crappy excuse at best. I wish my reason was something like,
"I'M SO SORRY I DIDN'T CALL. I WAS ABDUCTED BY SOMALI PIRATES"
"I FELL DOWN A WELL. IT WAS DARK."
"BOTH OF MY HANDS WERE CUT OFF AND IT'S REALLY HARD TO USE A PHONE AND COMPUTER"
"DUDE! I WOULD HAVE CALLED BUT I WAS DEAD! SERIOUSLY, I'M A ZOMBIE NOW!"
But alas, this is not the case. "I didn't speak to anyone for a while" is the best I can do. At least you know it wasn't personal, right?
So now you know I'm sorry.
Let's get a coffee. Or, I could make you a coffee. I make lots of coffees at work nowadays. It's one of my many duties. I make many, many coffees. Seriously though, let's breakfast or lunch or brunch or dunch. It takes me less time to get to places nowadays, and I'm much better at getting out of bed. Hey! I know! We could go shopping! We could get makeovers! Dude, let's buy new outfits! My theme will cease to be Geeky Slacker and you can quit with the whole Stand-offish Ice Queen vibe.
I'm sorry, that was uncalled for.
Seriously though... I know how much fun you are when you want to be, but you MUST realise how hard it can be to get through to you. Or to muster the courage to speak to you. You've gotta be more approachable! I say that in the nicest way possible, of course. I know I have a myriad of faults, but the least you could do is smile once in a while. Try not to let your default look be "ANGRYFACE". And don't say that it's because of me that you've got the angryface. I just apologised, okay? And you're far from perfect. In fact, sometimes you're downright pedantic and boring. In fact, I barely thought about you the entire time I was overseas. Take that. I loved being on the other side of the world from everyone, and that includes you buddy boy. In FACT, I'll level with you. I thought I could completely leave you behind, forget altogether that we'd ever been so intensely linked. I thought - and I kind of still do think - that I could run away into the happy wilderness and never ever see you again.
SORRY. Sorry sorry sorry. Back on track.
I had some damn high hopes for our relationship, duder. I still do. I think we can rebuild this. I know I was AWOL for rather a long time, but believe me when I say that I learned a whole lot after a whole lot of soul-searching and journeying. It was fucking epic, is what it was. It was like a Game of Thrones episode had a baby with a non-shit Eat Pray Love but with less Julia Roberts and more booze and expletives and without Javier Bardem. Actually, get rid of Eat Pray Love, that's gross. It was like an episode of Game of Thrones, but with less in the way of knights and more in the way of Spanish-speaking folk.
Seriously though, I realised that I do want you in my life. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. I'm sorry it took me so long to happen upon that nugget of knowledge, dude. Even though part of me says I shouldn't bother, I do know now that I want you around. I want to take on the world again, with you. I want to be an unstoppable duo, two badass motherfuckers not to be trifled with! I may tire of your endless nagging and your ambition, and you may grow weary of my apathy and short attention span, but I think we can make this work. Shit YEAH, we can make it work.
So. What do you say? Eh? Eh? Friends? Tentative pals? Come on, gimme a break here. Throw me a high-flying bone! We can do it! I know we can! We'll step back into the world and take it by the horns and pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and take it one game at a time and give it a hundred and ten percent while taking each week as it comes!
See you soon I hope.
Call me! Or I'll call you. Tell you what, I'll give you tomorrow to think about it, then I'm calling. I'm going to call the shit out of you.
Be excited. Use the trip as a carrot dangling in the distance during long days of being employed. Pack on the day of flight. Turn up at the abode of your three travel mates, whom you've known for years now. Occasionally wish you lived with them too. Realise you've packed about half the amount of everyone else. Realise you hadn't even thought about showering. Should you have thought about showering? Should soap have been on the list of things to bring? Or a towel? Were you supposed to bring something nice to wear? The others brought nice things. And towels. And soap. Wonder what you've gotten yourself into.
Endure the coldest flight known to man-kind. Attempt to sleep. Fail. Acquire warmth from one of the girls. Together look like the smallest mother with the biggest baby known to man-kind. Land. Get to villa. Crash. Wake up. Wake up ridiculously early because of the time difference. Go back to sleep. This is Holiday after all, and there is no conceivable reason to get out of bed at 7am. Realise you're on holidays from work. Rejoice.
Breakfast at the restaurant nearest your villa with the girls. Eat mie goreng for breakfast, because you can. It's tastier than out of the packet. Funny, that. Protip: Eat mie goreng all the time cause the packet shit won't cut it back home from now on. The waiter is young, and shy, and immediately seems to fall in love with your posse of confident Australian girls. Especially the loud, charismatic blonde.
Walk around the neighbourhood. Walk to the beach. You hate the heat. It's really hot. Swat away a bug, see the tropical trees. Realise you're in Bali. It's hot. It's hot in Bali. This will become increasingly apparent as the days go on. Collectively decide it's too hot for the beach. Lounge by the pool. Spend hours by the pool, making grand plans to ride elephants, go white water rafting, to visit temples and an isolated village. Know full well none of you will muster up the energy to make any of these activities occur. It's the thought that counts though, and you all tried. It's an inevitable failure. I mean, have you seen this pool?
Catch a cab to Seminyak. Pass far more beautiful-looking shops than you'd expected to. Shopping is an activity that most definitely will happen. Walk down the beach. You've never been to this kind of tropical paradise before. Marvel at how blue the sky is, how glorious the water looks. Do this while sweating like a Biggest Loser Contestant on their first day of training.
Cocktails by the beach. A warm buzz under the shade, with three amazing friends. Is it the cocktails talking or do you suddenly want to declare your love for everyone sitting at the table? Inwardly laugh at the ridiculous Sex and the City-ness of the scene. A few years ago you wouldn't have dreamed of being in a scene like this. Congratulations son, on nabbing yourself such good lady company for a week.
Back to the pool.
Dinner.
Cocktails.
Sleep.
Reading, writing, at the villa.
Get up late.
Pool.
Cocktails.
Dinner.
Cocktails.
Rinse, repeat.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Days are to be filled with lazing by the pool and floating in the pool. Get a massage. Drink some cocktails. Nights are to be filled with cocktails, and more laughter than your stomach can handle. Nights are also to be filled with shared beds, conversations in the dark that devolve into hysterical giggles and a lot of talk of sexy times.
Your table is inevitably That Table at every restaurant you go to, the loud shrieking one filled with four exuberant girls. Walk home from dinner, get caught in a monstrous storm. You and your friends are soaked to the bone. As one, you realise you're all in the perfect setting for the climax of a romantic melodramatic movie.
"I ALWAYS LOVED YOU!" You screech into the night sky.
Alice whirls around, and runs down the road into your outstretched arms.
"IT WAS ALWAYS YOU!"
"I WROTE YOU EVERY DAY!"
"AAAAAUUUURRHGHGHGHHG!!!"
You're all standing in the middle of a puddle in the middle of the road in the middle of a storm, laughing uncontrollably. Doesn't this sort of thing only happen in cheesy chick flicks? Apparently not. Pro-tip: It can happen in Bali. Glorious.
Realise your travel style is different to that of the girls you're with. Quickly tire of spending every day lazing by the damn pool. What's so interesting about roasting in the sun? Nothing. Nothing's interesting about that roasting in the sun. Why would you want to burn your skin? It's very hot, and very silent business. There's a lot to be said for quiet contemplation, but spending the entire day lying down turning your skin various shades of lobster? No. Consider going to a different town for the day by yourself. Quickly abandon that idea - it's too hot. Why did you agree to come to Bali? Bali is hot. DAMN it's hot.
Your companions have an aversion to hitching rides with anyone that isn't organised by a tour company, or cabs without meters. Be surprised at how irritating you find this. One of the girls talks about how different it is travelling here with other girls as compared to travelling with a guy. Inwardly disagree. Wonder why it matters if the car is or isn't organised by a gringo-ass tour agency. Wonder why it matters if the door is left open at the villa when we're lounging outside. Wonder why it's always such an ordeal making sure everyone pays the correct amount at dinner. Wonder all these things, and so wander off during one afternoon. Sit in a dirty dive bar nursing a beer, writing and people-watching. THIS is more like it.
Have such a good time with your companions upon returning that you feel more than a little guilty for growing impatient with them. Everyone's different, after all. Finding that annoying doesn't help anyone. Down some cocktails. Get a massage. Be very naked in front of Jaz. Naked conversations about creatively unfulfilling employment. Next level friendship strengthening maneuvers. Have a romantic dinner for four. The type of dinner that'd cost hundreds in Australia, and would most likely involve a shiny diamond ring. Cocktails. Rinse, repeat.
Get called "Darling" by everyone trying to sell something.
Have the following things shouted at you:
"I LIKE YOUR HAIRSTYLE!"
"LADY GAGAAAA!"
"PUNK ROCKER!!"
Find that to alternate between "pretty funny" and "very annoying".
This though, is nothing compared to Immy walking down the street in a long, tight blue and white maxi dress. She literally stops traffic.
Decide to head to Kuta, to see what all the fuss is about. Is it really overrun with Australian bogans? Do they all really wear Bintang singlets? Is it really that bad?
The answer to all of these questions is yes.
Whereas Legian had been "quite touristy", Kuta is "pretty much a more humid King Street". The men are sunburnt, sweaty and wasted. The women are on hens nights, and their skin is fire truck red with intermittent white lines.
Watch a group of five or so guys sit across the road from the two huge main clubs, watching predatorily. Be repulsed, yet fascinated. Find yourself feeling this way about most of the scenes you witness in this Australia-away-from-Australia. The horrid clubs, the bangin' club hitz, the fat and sweaty old men leering at you. Have this vague feeling that there's an amazing culture somewhere here that's being violated in some very rude way. Wonder how the Balinese feel about being overrun by awful drunken masses.
Alice baulks at the entrance to Paddy's (one of the two gross, huge clubs in question).
"I am not going in there. It looks awful. NO."
Down some tequila, which none of you ordered. Almost bully Jaz into drinking her shot. The liquid passes Alice's lips and she instantly gags. The dancing begins. Move to one of the clubs. Shitty dubstep, English guys wearing stupid caps and bum-bags. A foam pit. Step into the foam pit wearing socks, and boots. Feel the water engulf your poor, defenseless Dr Martens. Spend the rest of the night squelching while walking. By this stage, even Alice has embraced the trashy, over the top clubby, bogan-y vibe of the night. You're all dancing and laughing, with Immy instantly being oggled by most of the men dancing nearby.
The night wears on, two of the girls go to bed. At this stage, it is important to be one of the remaining two. You don't know it now, but this will lead to major funtimes, bonding between friends, adventures and future hilarious anecdotes of "The Worst Hangover Ever". Make sure not to consider the imminent torture nausea now however, as this is neither the time or the place. The time is nigh for decisions like "I should start drinking whiskey now" or "let's go to that bar, I think it's still open". Some naysayers would dare suggest that "I think that one's still open" is a sign to hit the hay. To them one must always reply, "haters gonna hate". Have one of the most enjoyable nights out in recorded history of McConaugheys.
Suddenly and elatedly realise as you're dancing (read: flailing, jumping) with your charismatic blonde friend that you've learned a hell of a lot about the lady you probably had the least strong emotional connection with. The past week though, you've come to see how interesting, witty, intelligent and kind she is. What an amazing lady. She even holds your hair back while you chunder into the villa's toilet. So much love.
Spend the next day intermittently tapping out in order to purge. Make sure to be sarcastic in between nauseous silence. According to your friends you were quite graceful given the circumstances. Be surprised at this. You're all kind of worse for wear. Silent dinner of fish on the beach. Silences are okay. This is a sign of a winning posse; hungover, irritated silences ain't no thang.
Your final days together are spent at Cocoon, a very swanky and very five-star restaurant. The restaurant also comes with a crystal-clear pool, and towels. DIDN'T NEED TO BRING A TOWEL AFTER ALL. Feel a couple of rungs below the requisite amount of graceful and classy to be there. No matter. Feel like yelling "SWAG!" every so often. Roast in the sun. Eat way too much. Eat bacon for breakfast. Get extra bacon. More coffee. More pool. Suddenly realise it's almost time to return home. Realise you haven't been this relaxed in a really, really long time. You all seem to realise the imminent return to the real world at the same time. The end hurtles at you all too quickly.
Next thing you know you're back at the airport, sitting on the cold ground reading airport books for what feels like hours. Suddenly get paranoid about getting caught with illicit substances. Imagine getting framed. Imagine spending your days in jail. Knowing your luck, it could happen. All clear. All clear to get back onto the freezing plane. Wear almost all of your clothes in order to stay warm. Your socks are still wet. Somehow manage to get to sleep, with Alice curled around you. Next thing you know, you're landing in Melbourne with a stiff neck and a sinking feeling that must be coming from the fact that Monday's mere hours away. Wonder why holidays need end. Curse the monotony of everyday life, and the way it makes the excellent times seem so so good. Feel incredibly close to the three girls. Also look forward to being alone. Almost regard the week that just occurred with an element of disbelief. Were you actually just in Bali, spending all those hours lazing by a pool? The most relaxed you'd been in months, the most you'd laughed in such a long time. That just happened. Laughter to the point of choking. You managed to feel comfortable enough to open up about things you previously had said nary a word to anyone about. Everyone sharing long stories filled with sighs. Long stories filled with victory, or yet more laughter. That shit was cathartic, that shit was the kind of shit that doesn't often come around. Ridiculous. So much love for the girls. Lots and lots of love for your lady-bros. Lady-bros. Remember having a late-night revelation over dinner and yelling, "YOU GUYS ARE MY BROS. YOU LADIES ARE MY LADY BROS. I FUCKING LOVE YOU."
Be immensely glad you've got them in your life.
Be glad you don't live with them.
Apart from the spluttering coughing fits and the constant wheezing that are plaguing me at the moment, the above gif pretty accurately describes the state I'm in. By accurately I mean to say that I haven't turned into a skinny be-suited ad executive, but I am rather excited. Dancing around dorkily with glee, even. Not even the constant feeling of needing to cough up a lung can suppress these happy vibes.
Those who know me well will be aware of where I live. Namely, that I live quite a long way from everything good and exciting that Melbourne has to offer. When Mike asked how I'd describe the particular suburb where my parents live, I used the phrase "...it's a far-off land where the grass is green and the jeggings are tight and the bus stops are for loitering in front of". I'll let you formulate your own mental image.
Given that all journeys home from the city last at least 35 minutes, I spent most of my third year of uni sampling the many and varied couches, floors and mattresses of pals. That fact (and a lot of time spent on South American buses) means I can fall asleep virtually anywhere. While this has proven to be a useful skill, it also means that far too much time is spent on public transport traveling back to my bed, when I could have been in my bed. Too much time on public transport, heading towards the end of the line.
Too much time driving to and from places.
45 minutes into the city.
An hour to work.
I live a ten minute walk from the local shopping centre, but the rage-inducing obnoxious scummy kids that fill it is hardly worth the efficient travel time.
Thus, it pleases me to no end to announce the following: Mike and I are moving in together, and we're moving to an adorable apartment a mere TRAM RIDE from the city. It's a fifteen minute drive to work. Call it twenty-five in peak hour morning traffic. It's DOWN THE ROAD (literally, it's hardly even a block) from a house full of some of my closest friends.
NO MORE! Will I have to rise any time before 7am.
NEVER AGAIN! will I weigh the pros and cons of catching a Night Rider. RARELY! Will I sleep on a floor.
There had been other apartments seen, houses considered briefly then immediately deemed as "Ugh, too expensive". Then after I bailed and drove the forty-five minutes home (forty-five minutes in good traffic), Mike called.
"DUDE. I FOUND OUR FUTURE HOME."
After the applications had been submitted, the references checked and the offer finally made to us, I couldn't do anything but quietly squeal to myself. I composed myself, then ran upstairs to the online room in order to squeal some excitement at whoever happened to be around.
Upon exhaustedly arriving at my backyard abode after the hour drive from South Melbourne, I looked around and suddenly realised something quite obvious: that I was moving out. It won't be the first time I've been separated from the Reb Cave for a long period of time. And spending long periods of time at houses that aren't mine ain't no thang. But moving to a new cave (as it were) ... that means packing up my belongings. My room would cease to be. I'm sure I'll write some long-winded farewell post about the ol' Reb Cave. For now, suffice to say that I can see the process of packing my shit up to be a long, nostalgic, epic and dusty process. I'm a hoarder by nature, and this house happens to be the longest my family's stayed in one location in all recorded history of my having been alive. Thus, I've accumulated a lot of shit.
For now though, let it be known that next weekend is Moving Time, that we've been pondering housewarming themes, as well as potential ways to incorporate Game of Thrones into the decorating of our home.
This is the way I think people look at me when I dance.
I envy the way some people - so many people - manage to look graceful as fuck or sexy as hell when they're shaking their booty/what their mother gave them/their moneymaker/their tail feathers on the ol' D-Floor. For me to jump up and flail my limbs with gay abandon (because I can't help that think "dancing" is too loose a term to use ... "flail my limbs" seems far more accurate), a number of things need to have occurred before that. I need to have consumed a number of alcoholic beverages. That, or I need to have been inspired to leave my seat/corner in which I stand clutching my beer by a song that can't not be danced along to. By this, I mean I need to hear "Blue Monday" or "Dancing in the Dark" (I'm serious) or some sort of surf rock classic (or Patsy Cline, but honestly when is that ever going to happen?). If the two of these things happen concurrently thanks to some fancy footwork (see what I did there?) amongst the stars' alignment, then you've got yourself a gosh darn tootin' dancing Reb.
That being said, you'll have a dancing Reb, but you're sure as shit not going to have a graceful Reb. I've grown to accept, dare I say it, I've grown to embrace how dorky I am at most given moments. More often then not, I'll be saying something awkward, or getting tangled up in my own bag, or be tripping over something. But still, even while I've come to terms with my dorkiness, I can't help but feel self-conscious a hell of a lot of the time I happen to find myself dancing. As a result, I always find it worthy of noting in my brain the moments in which I manage to have myself a rip-snorting unselfconscious boogie. The moments in which I'll still most likely be getting looks that seem to ask "What the hell is that girl trying to do? Is she in the throes of a conniption?", but I won't give one iota of a shit about it.
Behold, the first of a few examples of times I have enjoyed dancing.
1. With Alice.
I'd say "With every one of the Uni Girls", but it'd be a crime not to single out dearest Alice in particular for closer analysis and praise. When Alice dances her long limbs sail through the air, her hair whips around and seems perpetually suspended mid-air. She manages to look slightly mesmerising throughout every song, an incredible balancing act between endearingly sexy and absolutely hilarious. So much so that our pal Immy has at one point even drunkenly felt the need to remind Alice that "subtlety can be sexy too". During a discussion in Mornington a couple of weekends ago, it was decided that Alice's animal equivalent was not so much the giraffe we'd always thought was appropriate, but that she could be more accurately described by way of a llama.
"Well, it's got these kind of graceful long limbs, but the rest of it's pretty dorky"
The weekend after I got back to Melbourne, we found ourselves at the Toff in Town, in a dance floor barren when usually we'd be surrounded by fellow revelers. The DJ was spinning Wings. That could have turned into a fun-impeding problem, as much as I do enjoy myself a bit of McCartney. Not so however, given the company I was keeping. It was time to Get It Done. I felt like I was back in Melbourne in earnest at last. If Journey Night out with the Girls were a film, it wouldn't be complete without a montage of us jumping, flailing, with hair flapping, fists pumping with little to no regard for what people around us could possibly be thinking. Legs and arms and hair being thrown every which way. Glorious.
Last night I caught up with a friend of mine, a guy I met in Chile who returned to Australia about two weeks ago. I convinced him to come out with the girls and I after our initial catch-up beers were consumed. True to form, we ended up trouping over to the Toff. It has to be said that the expression on his face when "Backstreets Back" hit the speakers and we hit the dancefloor was one between utter confusion and extreme amusement. While we jumped around and screeched along and did our best boy band-esque moves Steve alternated between an applaudable effort to join in and complete puzzlement.
Artist's impression.
What was noteworthy about that particular night was the fact that I completely forgot how awfully dorktastic and awkward I look when I dance. I couldn't possibly ever dance in any way remotely close to "sexy", so I suppose that's why I enjoy dancing completely outrageously. When I'm attempting the former, I'm fairly sure my facial expression is one of intense concentration mixed with concern and maybe pain, while my feet shuffle around and my hips move completely separately and my arms don't know where to go ... I can't imagine it's particularly attractive. Any occasion in which I forget to be completely self-conscious about how alarmingly awkward I look on the dance floor, it's a unique moment worthy of celebration.
I know I keep apologising for the lack of blogging.
I'm sure though, that it hurts me far more than it hurts you. To my handful of followers, and assorted friends that actually read this, I apologise from the bottom of my nauseous and feverish heart.
I'm sick. A full-blown, run to the toilet for fear of chundering in my bed, fever'd up, tissues littered around the bin sickness. It ain't pretty, I'll tell you that much for free. It also means that after being on a film shoot all weekend and not earning money, I've spent the last two days dragging myself to various places of employment and bailing after a couple of hours, thus still not earning any South America party-money. Luckily it's also the kind of sickness that makes it all too clear that I'm certainly not faking, so that's one thing I don't have to worry about.
Back to bed I went, to have bizarre sickness dreams. These include but are not exclusive to: wading around in pools of dead fish and monsters, and finding a boy I used to see in a jail in Denmark, doomed to spend the rest of his days living in a dirt pit. We had sex, then it was Christmas, then I woke up. I woke up confused, and had a coughing fit.
What the fuck was that.
Anyway.
Being sick means I now have time to write.
It also means that if I were to choose a word to describe the state I'm in at the moment, it would not be "winning". And certainly not #winning. Certainly not.
In a conversation earlier tonight with Dave, we discussed (amongst other things), the way in which various celebrities are treated during and after a spiralling trainwreck episode, whatever that might entail. In addition to this, it's interesting to note the difference between the reactions afforded to male, as opposed to female, celebrities.
For instance, let us ponder for a moment, Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears and to a lesser extent, Winona Ryder. During and after their spiraling downfalls, it seemed inconceivable that their careers would ever recover, given the vitriol and hatred sent in their directions, and the glee that everyone seemed to take in watching the trainwreck unfold.
Fastforward a little while, with the media and blogosphere having moved on somewhat, and their respective careers have recovered to varying degrees of success. I mean, if you call Lohan getting her tits out in Machete a "come back", that is.
Probably not #winning.
Charlie Sheen though, is an entirely different kettle of 7 gram rock slamin' fish.
After being fired from his hit TV show, and having endless nights of publicly described debauchery involving hookers and trashed hotel rooms, it seems as if his career is far from being shot and dead on the floor. Rather, he's become something of an internet hero. It almost seems as if now when one describes something or someone as "winning", then one must add a hashtag at the beginning of the word, and tip one's hat in Mr Sheen's direction.
Gaunt, chain-smoking and erratic, Sheen's interviews of late are a sight to behold. Soundbite after soundbite, interview after interview. It's fascinating, is what it is. Seemingly taking any interview that he gets requested for, Sheen appears to be on a mission to prove how much he just does not give a shit. That, in my opinion, is part of the reason why suddenly it's so hard to hate this person who really shouldn't be endearing in the slightest. He beat up on his wife, right? He's kind of fucking psychotic, right? But man, there's just something about Carlos Estevez that has made me spend the last half-hour or so looking up his recent interviews on Youtube.
I can almost imagine his publicist having a sudden brainwave.
"What the fuck do we do? Charlie was fired! He's fucked! I'm fucked!
Then, after an interview or two, and a few cocktails or lines of coke with his cash cow while watching the fall out of said videos ...
"EUREKA! Just let him say whatever the fuck he wants!"
I do think that there's something about Sheen's complete lack of remorse that is not only kind of transfixing, but also rather ingratiating; albeit, not deliberately so. I can't imagine he gives much of a shit about what Australian twenty-somethings think about his antics.
Probably #winning.
At any rate, I found that while I was watching "that" interview at the end of February, I was thoroughly entertained by this dude with a terrible TV show that just did not seem to give a shit about what the interviewer thought. Typically, a fallen celebrity will do a tell-all interview in the hopes of reaching as many screens as possible with their remorse and shame and "I was in a bad place and I'm so happy to be out of it and I'll never do it again please re-hire me" message. Sheen though, declared that he was in fact, proud of his recent drug binges (despite being clean at the time of the interview), and then seemed shocked that the interviewer was shocked that he could be at all proud.
The now-infamous interview spawned that first barrage of sound-bites, that Sheen proclaimed he was "bi-winning", not bi-polar, that he was "bangin' seven gram rocks, and finishing them!", that "dying's for fools!", that so much of his behaviour could be attributed to the fact that he has one speed, that of "GO!". He claimed that he made Sinatra, Flynn, Richards look like "droopy-eyed, armless children". Perhaps it's a respect (is that the right word?) often afforded to someone who sticks it to the man, who flicks a cigarette in the direction of the haters, but the steadfast, complete lack of shit-giving and the complete lack of self-censorship made me suddenly like this train-wreck of a man. It's as if his game plan at that point was simply, "Fuck it. Tell 'em everything."
Since then, the game plan seems to have altered ever so slightly. "WINNING" has now become Sheen's catchphrase, his battle cry, a brand if you will. Countless interviews later, and Sheen seems hell-bent on constantly mentioning how much he is, in fact, winning. Having been asked about what he planned on doing with regard to his child custody hearing, he texted People back with, "Born ready. Winning." Not that I mind that he's beating "WINNING" into the ground. If we focus on WINNING, then we overlook his comments about warlocks, tiger blood, not being of "this particular terrestrial plane" and countless other gems.
Charlie Sheen's incessant interview giving, and his complete lack of self-censorship during his at times almost stream-of-consciousness ranting has spawned all manner of Adonis-blood infused warlock children. These include not only countless youtube remixes (including this dubstep one I particularly enjoy), but also a game on Newgrounds, t-shirts and a Jimmy Fallon spoof that is actually completely on the money and hilarious.
In particular, I'd like to direct your attention to this, a video starring Sheen on Funny or Die. On one hand, it's a shame to see the former superb young actor of Wall Street and Platoon (God, he was good in that...) fame reduced to this sort of stupidity. On the other hand, it's kind of fucking funny. It's Charlie Sheen's Winning Recipes in which the actor details the ways in which to cook while also winning. I laughed. I also felt my liking of Sheen rise a little more. Isn't that crazy? Perhaps then, we can equate "winning" to being synonymous with "not giving a shit" and "having a sense of humour and taking the piss out of oneself". Sure, much of the endless "winning" ranting on any talk show that'll have him is probably an attempt to stay in the headlines long enough to get a new television deal, but watching this video I find myself being sympathetic and laughing with (not at) someone who probably doesn't really deserve my sympathy.
I think there's a few lessons we can garner from this Sheen business.
I think most importantly, if you're going to go on a drugs n' hookers binge and get fired from your hit Emmy-award winning yet utterly terrible TV show, don't lie about it. Instead, embrace it! Revel in it! Then everyone will like you. Drug busts and debauchery don't have to be your downfall! It could be the resurgence your career's been waiting for. Isn't that right, Kate Moss?
Try to Win, just like Charlie. Adopt an "I don't give a shit" attitude, insult a few people, get one or more (preferably more) porn-star live-in girlfriends and dub them your "Goddesses"! Hell, get yourself a catch phrase! Soon you''ll not only be the toast of the internet, but you'll have a regular spot on the nightly news. Any publicity is good publicity, right? Maybe you'll get a TV deal out of it! And an entirely new generation and demographic of fans wearing your face on a t-shirt!
I wonder what Martin Sheen is thinking, when he turns on the news or ET and sees his hilarious train wreck of a son? I wonder if Emilio parties with him? I wonder if fellow brat-packer heart throb Rob Lowe wishes he could have his scandal over again, in this day and age instead of the 1980s?
For now though, I have to admit that I'll be following this whole saga with some interest. That is because I honestly have no idea of how it's going to play out. Will he OD? Will one or more of his "Goddesses" kill him? Will he get re-hired onto Two and a Half Men after publicly insulting the show's creator, Chuck Lorre? Or will he suddenly get signed up for his own talk show? I'm really not sure. Judging by the recent Sheen's Korner however, my money's certainly not on the last option.
