...and this is a real, actual conversation that I had at a previous job.
Poor girl. At first I thought she was joking. Then I realised no, she's just a really, really straight-faced genuine fan of the Worst Band in the World. I am ashamed of how much my snobbery could not be quashed but shit, you try being in that situation and keeping a straight face.
This long weekend was JUST what I needed. It was the perfect mix of action-packed catch-ups with friends, lounging around watching shitty movies, seemingly endless sleep, and party-time debauchery.
A high school catch-up here, a comedy festival show there, a sleep in or two scattered around some footy, dinner with a pal, and the Game of Thrones season premiere - well son, you're cooking with some TASTY, TASTY SHIT. I actually almost completely forgot it was Easter (good Catholic that I am), such was the intensity of the weekend's Pure Undiluted Goodness. PUG, if you will.
Know what PUG is? It's a first thought of panic entering your heart after waking up of your own accord, then the realisation that the complete lack of obnoxious screeching alarm is because THE WEEKEND'S NOT OVER YET, BITCHES.
The weekend was a cup of coffee when it's just the right temperature for drinking while still being hot. This weekend was finding $100 in your room (WHICH HAPPENED). This weekend was Christopher Walken, when he's being menacing without being a hammy caricature. Hell, this weekend was like the perfect ratio of chip quantity to dip quantity.
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?"
Once upon a time, there were two dashing knights. They were Sir Nathanael, of the Western Deserts, and Sir Reb, of the questionable social skills and the land of llamas.
They had reached the end of a week of dragon slaying, damsel rescuing and "working for the man" (to use the parlance of the time) and found themselves "hanging out" (again, to use the parlance of the time) together one Friday night in the centre of the kingdom. Now, Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb didn't know each other particularly well at that stage, but they had heard rumblings and tales of the other's bravery and wit around the realm. So they decided to hitch up their steeds at Flinders Street stable and set off into the night to find a way to unwind after so many battles and missions throughout the week.
The two knights sought out and found a local jester show and had themselves a few jollies. Filled with lulz, the two knights decided to continue on into the kingdom and enjoy some ale. After all, when there are no dragons to slay in the morning, why not sink some ale and talk of battles past?
So Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb clinked giant vessels of ale together and discovered very quickly that they shared a love of Justin Townes Earle (a minstrel from the North) and terrible jokes and also ale. Sir Reb knew Sir Nathanael was somewhat new to the kingdom, so decided to show him one of her favourite taverns. After all, new knights ought to know of the best taverns in the kingdom. And so, Sir Reb took the other knight to the famed D-Floor of Cherry Bar, known throughout the land for being conducive to Excellent Times.
As they entered, they could see the Party Times were at a minimum, but were undeterred. These two brave knights had conquered far more solo than a lacklustre D-Floor - who knows what they could do as a pair in battle?
Cherry Bar soon found out. Despite their gold pieces running perilously low, the two knights sank some more ale and upon hearing some rock n' roll tune from days gone by, Sir Reb dragged Sir Nathanael onto the D-Floor.
And so it came to pass that the pair discovered another shared skill and fondness for ridiculous dancing. They pretended to be animals, they flailed, they jumped around, they shimmied and twisted. Jazz hands were involved. Soon, having built up the requisite cojones for such a move, they jumped onto the stage and continued their truly stupendous display of uncoordinated Good Times and Excellent Moves. Even though the night was warm and the lights were bright, Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb did not care that their suits of armour were getting really fucking sweaty and slightly gross. Nor did they notice that as they danced and laughed, a crowd was building around them. A host of other maidens and knights and townsfolk joined them on the stage and on the dance floor. They had successfully Got the Party Started.
Buoyed by the validation from the crowd and the killer tunes being spun, Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb agreed unspoken to Upping the Fucking Ante. Nathanael hung from the rafters, trapping Reb in his legs. Reb danced with a sand bag over her head. Reb tried to hang from the rafters then realised she wasn't sober enough to be trying something like that. So they threw a milk crate around and spat bits of lime at each other. Nate was carried, victorious, over the heads of the townsfolk. As they began to dance a la Fantastic Mr Fox, a group of others on stage joined in. It was excellent.
Finally, Sir Reb jumped offstage to hit up the bathroom (after all, there had been quite a bit of ale involved). As she walked through the tavern, she noticed everyone looking at her strangely. Not in a "Oh shit, that knight just lost that jousting match", but more in a "Oh shit, that knight just fucked up that dragon" kind of way. Which was awesome.
Sir Reb returned to the D-Floor, feeling victorious. She felt victorious until she noticed her shoe had broken, which was incredibly disappointing because she'd just purchased them from one of her favourite stores in the kingdom, Gorman. By that stage however, not even a fucked up shoe could dampen her mood so she boogied on with an almighty fucked-up-shoe-limp. They kept on ripping it up and crowd surfing and hanging from the rafters and pretending to dance like small marsupials.
And so, at the end of the night when the two knights had sweated in their suits of armour a little too much (suitably gross) and they left the tavern, they walked up the lane to high fives and a bunch of applause.
Songs would be sung and tales would be told throughout the land, of the Bravery and Super Skills of Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb, songs and tales passed down through generation to generation. For that was the night they became Kings of the D-Floor, and that shit was Fucking Epic.
Now I'm kind of wishing I'd asked someone to bring an actual camera.
So friends, there's quite a bit to report. As you may remember from a previous post, I spent most of last weekend crapping myself out of fear and nerves before my heat in Raw Comedy. For the uninitiated, Raw (or is it RAW? I actually don't know) is a nation-wide open mic competition endlessly plugged on Triple J, held in conjunction with the Melbourne Comedy Festival. After a bunch of heats and finals, amateur comics compete in the Grand Final, which is during the comedy festival. Then the winner wins stuff. In order to compete, one can't have earned over a certain amount of dough doing stand-up. I haven't earned any, nor have I ever even tried this sort of thing. Unless you count running around wearing a Dodo suit in a high school production of Alice in Wonderland "stand-up comedy".
In any case, my heat was on Sunday. I was terrified. I arrived at the Comic's Lounge, and to my horror I found that the vast majority of the other competitors were all seasoned in the ways of "gigging" and "being a comedian". I was suddenly certain I'd made a terrible mistake. I was going to die. I was going to vomit onstage. No one would laugh. I wouldn't know how to use the mic. I'd fall off the stage.
I became increasingly convinced I'd let down all of my closest friends. Hell, Ferg had even driven (hungover) from a wedding somewhere in the country especially to see me. That was way too much pressure. WAY too much. Backstage, I'm pretty I must have looked like I was about to pass out.
I peed about eight times in the space of an hour. That's no exaggeration. I paced up and down, then sat down and stared at my shoes, running through my material in my head, convinced I'd get onstage and be unable to speak.
ohfuckohfuckohfuck
Of course, that didn't happen at all. Right as I thought I was going to throw up amidst all the sweating and barely held back panic attack, I jumped up and down a couple times and bounded onstage.
"YAYY!!!! REBBYYYYY!" I heard Alice's voice yell out. That calmed my nerves immensely.
And you know what? EVERYTHING WENT BETTER THAN EXPECTED.
People laughed. I felt natural. I didn't pee. I even got an applause break! Which was weird, and I almost forgot to pause to let the audience clap. What the fuck?? was the most memorable thought going through my head at the time.
I tell you what, it was exhilarating. I ran off the stage and was greeted with beaming smiles, high fives and shocked praise from the other comics. I floated about three feet off the ground for the next few hours. My phone started buzzing immediately. I reemerged at the end of the bracket to shrieks and hugs and high fives from my posse of friends. I could barely breathe. And after we all headed to Auction Rooms for breakfast (they walked, I fled), and after everyone had heaped good vibes and praise on me, I began to think that maybe I had done okay. Like, more okay than merely proving to myself that I could do it at all. As we left, I felt hands on my arms and shoulders, followed by "Hey! Good set!" or "Man, you were funny!".
I felt almost greedy, that I could want to get to the next round after all I'd wanted to do was "see if I could do it". But then the prospect began to excite me. After all, why else would I have wanted to "see if I could do it"? I fucking love making people laugh. It's one of the few things I know I've got going for me in social situations. Or any situation. That I'm goofy as hell, and sometimes funny.
So after we ate, and sweated in the ridiculous heat, and after I calmed down and after everybody left, I returned for the end of the third bracket. It ended, and the judges read my name out with six others and I made a choking noise and then I bailed, without speaking to the producer or to the judges because I was quietly freaking out. In the happiest possible way.
I spent the next twenty-four hours being elated, psyched, delighted and excited. And proud of myself.
Then I heard my preliminary final would be the next day and I freaked out again.
I spent all of Tuesday afternoon in varying degrees of panic. I honestly thought I would vomit. All day. I was nauseous and sweating profusely all day, and I got no work done because suddenly I couldn't remember any of my jokes.
What was heartening though, was seeing one of the guys (see also: legitimate comedian who like, has gigs and everything) from my heat, Ethan Addie, on the tram. He immediately told me that he thought I was the best of our heat, and that I should start hitting up some comedy rooms around Melbourne. Which was lovely, and enough to keep the chunder from breaching my throat for the time being.
In fact, I think I was more nervous than in my heat. Before, I had no expectations. Now, not only did I want to do well, I had more people coming, which meant more people to potentially let down. Also, everyone competing was picked as one of the best from their respective heats. I got to the Evelyn and went to the bathroom so I could close my eyes for a little bit.
My friends started arriving shortly afterwards and I calmed down a little bit. I watched the first half, and decided that I wasn't going to win. That, I think, was when I began to feel less pressure. I reminded myself of the first thing I had to say when I got onstage, and figured that if I managed to get that right, the rest of it would fall into place, and who cares anyway - I wasn't going to win. Only two comics would go through, and this was only my second gig. My first time onstage had been two days previous. I told other comedians I knew vaguely (acquaintances from time being cameraman on Studio A, a channel 31 variety show) that it was my second gig with a mixture of pride and terror. At least I was able to speak, which I wasn't able to do earlier in the afternoon.
Anyway, I eventually ended up bounding onstage without chundering everywhere beforehand and as soon as I did, I felt fine. I actually walked around the stage this time, and occasionally paused. I felt really, really good. People laughed in all the right places, and I was able to enjoy myself without the underpinning terror that had characterised my first foray onto the stage two days earlier. Honestly though? I was sure that the crowd wasn't laughing as hard as they had during the heat. So as I raced off the stage afterwards, I was sure that the congratulations I got from backstage was simply because it was "only my second gig". I hoped that it was enough to not let my pals down, and headed back out to the main room of the Evelyn to watch the rest of the show.
Side note: the last act of the night had me in stitches. His name was Stuart, and for the life of me I can't remember his last name, but fuck me I could not breathe I was laughing so hard. It was intense. I was doing my zebra/hyena laugh in between choking for air. I was sure that he'd be the winner.
So when Adam Rozenbachs read his name out first as the runner-up, I thought Cool, lol. Time for me to boost, I got some Paul Kelly to see. Did I mention that? I had a ticket to see Paul Kelly and Neil Finn with my folks. I didn't get to see either of them though. Which was okay. Because my name was read out as the winner, I shrieked and dropped my bag and threw myself onto the stage (over an amp which was very graceful) and I stood there like a deer in headlights and made ridiculous faces and I think I even danced around a little bit.
The next twenty minutes or so is a blur of saying "THANK YOU VERY MUCH" and "AAUUURGHHH!" to pats on my back and hugs and yelled cries of "WELL DONE REBBY!" and "CONGRATULATIONS BRO!". Alice was shrieking, Lucy was crying, and I didn't quite know what to do or say apart from THANKS and nondescript noises of delight and terror.
Some dude wanted to give me his number. People were shaking my hand. Someone asked me if I had any gigs coming up. "Uh. The state final?" I replied. Then it hit me. I was the winner! I am so rarely the winner, I didn't know what to do. So I bailed. I got in a cab, thinking I might make it to Paul Kelly. I immediately realised I wouldn't, so I went back to the Evelyn. I thought it awkwardly after the point to track down the judges and do some "NETWORKING" (oh, god...), so I called Nate.
It seemed appropriate, that the rest of the night be spent on the phone to Mitch, then having a beer with Nate. After all, they're the two #PerthLads who so vehemently told me that I should try standup. Nate had even told me as much before we knew each other particularly well, so that was certainly noteworthy at the time. Not that I don't take heed of what Mitch thinks (quite the opposite, really), but he is the one that Always Believes in Me No Matter What.
So yeah, we sank some beers and I calmed down and I slowly came to terms with the fact that maybe this could be something to try. Something that I might be good at, and perhaps worth giving a concerted go. I always feel most victorious when I'm making my friends laugh, and I think deep down I had really wanted to do well in this competition. Now's a good a time as any to admit that to myself, I think. And I think that even if I don't progress to the next round (I really don't think I will), I might as well try my hand at a few open mics around Melbourne. After all, this began as an exercise in pushing myself out of my comfort zone. Why not see exactly how far I can push? Fuck, I'd love to see if I'm a good comedian. Or comedienne. Whatever.
Honestly though, I can definitely say that I haven't been this excited about something, or this proud of myself in a ages. I mean, fuck, it feels GOOD to win! And it feels good to feel like you're doing something that people get a kick out of. This, combined with a few other little things I've got going on has meant that for the first time in a while, I'm actually super psyched about what the next few months might hold. Or maybe that's just the lack of complete and undiluted terror and panic talking.
THANK YOU to everyone who came to see me on Sunday or on Tuesday. I really appreciate that you made the trek over to support me and kept me from chumming everywhere with your yelling. You guys are The Best.
Also, I feel I must give Mike and Jaz a shout-out. You guys are SUCH good sports. x
