I HAVE MOVED, PEOPLE

As in, I haven't just moved to Fairfield.

Reb, Not Bec has moved to Tumblr. I'm not entirely sure whether this is a great, or a terrible idea - but IT HAS HAPPENED and if you'd like to keep on reading my ridiculous shit, you will have to do it at:

rebnotbec.tumblr.com

Wooooooo.

I've moved over a few "choice" (read: "merely okay") ramblings and drawings. And I'm definitely going to be updating more. This whole "No Internet" thing at home has meant I've actually been doing some constructive things with my time. 

So go! Go to the tumblr. Way of the future, all the kids are doing it, #etc. 

What I've Been Doing Without the Internet

I've had a lot of time on my hands, so I've been doing things.

Like DRAWING SHITTY PICTURES. See what no internet drives me to? Crappy TV and crappy scribblings. I even watched The Big Bang Theory last night. Next thing you know, I'll be "upvoting" things I like in really "inappropriate" ways.

Anyway, enjoy. If anyone needs me, I'll be in (r)Adelaide for the next few days. YEAH.

Groovin' the Moo 2013

Or: The Bronx were awesome, the crowd was shit, and the rest of it was pretty good. 

Exactly one day before we all moved out and bade farewell to Castle Mega (as our Toorak abode came to be known), Mike, Jaz and I hit up Groovin' the Moo in Bendigo. The day was gloriously sunny, then bitterly cold, and filled with music and a very young crowd. 

The day taught me three things, all of which I actually already knew:

• I fucking love The Bronx
• I despise young, obnoxious crowds
• I'm kind of getting sick of day music festivals swimming with a young, obnoxious crowd

Much of the day. 

Okay, let me rephrase and explain. I had a good time. It was an enjoyable day, and a nice way to tie up the time Mike (and Jaz) and I had spent together. After all, the first real conversation Mike and I had was basically a Bronx love-fest that became louder and louder as we discovered how damn much we each love the Bronx. There were plenty of fun times had, and at least a couple of minds blown upon seeing The Bronx. 

Unfortunately, for a disappointing portion of the day I felt like I was an angry old man, waving his cane/walking frame/wrinkly old fist at a pack of good fer nuthin' young whippersnappers intent on ruining his day/lawn. At first I put this down to the fact that I'm often very quick to anger and impatience when it comes to inanimate objects, most drivers on the road, and teens. I then became severely disappointed at myself for being so ageist and a prematurely grumpy old woman. 

Of course, it's also the first music festival in a while that I spent the entire time completely sober, so that might've been it (although I severely doubt it). 

First off - the good bits.

Saw some swell music. Frightened Rabbit were great, Alpine were an enjoyable listen, The Kooks were also a bit of fun. Regurgitator were a fucking BLAST and made me very glad indeed that I ended up going to the festival at all. And The Bronx, I'm glad to say, were well worth price of admission. The entire time they were onstage I wished I'd had the smarts to buy a ticket to their Corner Hotel sideshow ... which from all accounts, was an ear-gasm inducing sweaty pit of glorious tunes.

I'd seen them before, at Soundwave a few years ago. To give you an idea of what it was like, in a day that Iron Maiden were the headliners, The Bronx was my highlight. They blew my mind, and left my pals and I as sweaty, elated, bruised and battered messes.

What ensued at Groovin' the Moo was pretty much a repeat of that, in that it was fucking awesome. Mike and I later praised Matt Caughthran on his onstage charisma, and his ability to whip a crowd into a frenzy (but of course, that's a given). I also later expressed my desire to "shag the ever-loving snot out of Joby". By George, I wish I'd seen their sideshow. They were exciting and tight and brutal, the crowd was rowdy, moshing, circle pit-ing mess, and hell - this was a watered-down, sunny, big festival context. I can only imagine what they were like in a cramped, enclosed, sweaty Corner Hotel context full of dedicated fans. I'm pretty sure I would have died. And it would've been a most glorious way to go. Highlights were "Knifeman", "Shitty Future", "History's Stranglers".

There's just something incredibly exhilarating about bashing into a crowd of other people jumping around, yelling and sweating. And about everyone screaming as one, "MOTHERFUCKER, I WANT YOUR BLOOD!!!" while the singer sails over you on a sea of hands. I didn't want the set to end, to say the least. As Jaz and I looked for Mike afterwards, I was still jumping around wild-eyed, ripping off layers of clothing. Mike greeted us with a massive high five and a huge grin.

"THAT WAS EVERYTHING I WANTED AND MORE!" He declared.

That was the highlight of the festival, and it was about 2pm.

Now, onto the raging.

What I wanted to do most of the day

Way back when I went to Soundwave (and saw the Bronx), I made sure to make a distinction in the following blog post (which I can't be bothered finding now) between the crowd that day and the crowd I'd endured at Big Day Out just a month or so previous. I think my comments were somewhere along the lines of: 

Big Day Out Crowd: Young, obnoxious, at Big Day Out in order to "be at Big Day Out", not there for the music (yes, I'm aware of how cliched and wanky a thing to say that is), and generally kind of just rude. 

Soundwave Crowd: Not really any of those things. 

Of course, that's a gross overgeneralisation. There are dickheads in every crowd. And dickheads come in all shapes and sizes and ages, of course. However. However. However. The general feeling conveyed above was something I felt again at Groovin' the Moo, and I think that in large part it was a result of the very, very "all ages" crowd at Bendigo's showgrounds. 

It was the kind of crowd that - even if there was plenty of room around in a not-too-packed space - would make sure to shove past you on their rushed way to the stage. The kind of crowd that - upon arriving at the stage - would do everything in their power to push, bump and shove their way as close to the front as humanly possible, with no consideration given to anyone around them, or to the fact that all they'd then be seeing is someone's back. Then they'd spend the entire set watching the stage through the pixels of their phone screen.

I can't tell you how many times I saw an ocean of arms thrust above the crowd, phones clutched and recording. Oh man. Oh, man. Oh, MAN was it ever infuriating. I actually began taking photos of people taking photos. Which maybe makes me a hypocrite, but fuck you - it was intermittently and it was to prove a point. And yes, I realise I took a photo of The Bronx with my phone. But that was one photo, after which I shoved my phone back into my bag in order to continue rocking out.

To those who watch gigs through a phone screen - why? Are you really going to re-watch the fuzzy, blurry, shitty footage you've recorded ever again? Don't you think at all that actually being present in the moment might make for a better memory of the gig? Don't you think for a moment that you might be a walking millennial cliche?? FUCK. 

Take Tame Impala. This is an instance where at first I thought my enjoyment was impeded by the fact that I was stone-cold sober and sans Dane to dance like a maniac with me, until I realised it really wasn't. We positioned ourselves in the crowd, and soon began to enjoy - read: not enjoy - being constantly shoved by screeching girls and bro'd-up guys trying to get that little bit closer to the front. Why? WHY?

I really tried to get into it and have a good time, which was difficult considering Jaz was standing there, glowering. Hard to dance when your pals are fuming. It's also hard to rock out when the crowd doesn't seem to even register there being a band onstage - exactly the case during Tame Impala. It was almost as if it didn't matter whether there was music occurring at all, the crowd was just interested in taking selfies of themselves being at #GTM2013. After hearing a few songs, attempting to boogie to "Elephant" and realising the band seemed to be in the mood to jam, I admitted defeat and told the guys we could head to Flume.

Which was a terrible decision.

In fact, when I was describing all this to a friend a couple of days ago, he interjected with, "Was it the Flume crowd? Were they the worst?"

To which I replied, "Yes."

They were. So bad. Obnoxious. Awful. Trashy. With an average age of about eighteen. It was packed. I immediately regretted the fact that we were amongst the thick of it; I'm sure following my own advice of being further back with space to move and space to breathe where there wasn't someone constantly farting/shoving would've been the way to go.

Now, please know that I realise crowds like that are conducive to shoving and being in close proximity to other people. And that is more than fine with me - I love mosh pits, I love boogying up a storm in a sea of people, all that bizzo. And of course, I've been known to rock out without really registering what band was on (I forgot to notice when Flume played at Golden Plains). But oh man, what had started as irritation and exasperation earlier in the day and in the Tame Impala crowd, quickly turned into a flying rage during Flume. I turned around and saw Jaz, stony faced and looking like steam was about to burst out of her ears. So many phones in the air. A girl literally shoving people out of her way. Young dudes being complete douche canoes.

Flume's set was completely fine, enjoyable. Unfortunately, I wanted to roundhouse kick just about everyone in the crowd. We soon left (which was an exercise in "FFFFUUUUUUUU" in itself) and went over to The Kooks. I noticed how quickly my mood shifted back to "agreeable" and "cheerful" being away from the Flume crowd. Until of course, Flume's set finished and they all poured like some sort waterfall of bug larvae from a larger bug. I'm sorry, that's an awful mental image.

Later on, as the day was done and the three of us made our way back to the car, I noted how old and angry I felt throughout so much of the festival. And I was pleased to hear Mike and Jaz completely agreed with me. If I'm angry and old, then they are too. Or maybe it was just apparent how dudd-ful the general crowd was (not including the crowd at The Bronx). Was it because I was completely sober? Was it because I'm an impatient person? Was it because The Kids have no sense of "etiquette" and "not being a complete dudd"? I'm not sure.

Reading back on this, it seems like I had a shitty, shitty day apart from The Bronx. Not true! Frightened Rabbit were rad. Regurgitator were very rad. Kooks were fun. Flume would've been fun if not filled with dudds. I had a blast hanging with Mike and Jaz. It was a sunny, lovely day and I was wearing a TIE fighter t-shirt on May the Fourth.

That being said though, I'm very certain I'll be adding Groovin' the Moo to sit alongside Big Day Out in the list of "there'll have to be a fucking amazing line up for me to hit that again".

How to Be Sick

Artist's impression

Further to my guide to Getting Sick.

Wake up and feel as if you've gotten a sword to the head and face, a la Tyrion Lannister at Blackwater Bay. You can't breathe. You can't swallow. Your alarm goes off. It's 7:30am. Consider the likelihood of your being able to go to work. Audibly moan. "FUUUCK."

Sit up. As you sit up, a stream of snot literally flows out of your nose. Literally. It pours out, and lands on the bed. There's a puddle of snot on the bed. Groan. "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK."

Stagger to the bathroom. Have a shower. Lean your head against the wall. "FUUUUUUUUCK." Feel like this might be worse than all hangovers you've ever experienced combined. Maybe? But come on, this is no hangover. This is just another, entirely different kind of immense pain, not the result of outside forces. Wonder if a whole lot of bacon and a sneaky chunder might help. Probably not. You can never make yourself chunder anyway. And this isn't chunder-ville. This is you being Legitimately Unwell. Look at yourself in the mirror. Decide calling for an old priest and a young priest is probably the best option. You need a fucking exorcism.

Picture your head spinning around while you masturbate with a crucifix and Max von Sydow watches. Giggle hysterically at the depraved mental image, then begin coughing uncontrollably. Fuuuuck.

Stagger to your room and get half-dressed. Decide you're going to try and go to work. Screw it, you can make it to work. And work all day. Down a cup of lemsip (the strong stuff), a berocca, all the different types of cold and flu tablets you can find, every assorted vitamin you can find, eat two oranges, and take a liver detox tablet for good measure, then drink many glasses of water. Hydration, bitches. Unfortunately, all that results in is a desperate need to pee. The fluorescent kind of pee.

Go back to bed.

Have ridiculous, fever-addled dreams. Wake up. Use toilet paper to blow your nose because you don't have any tissues. Curse the fact that you didn't buy the nice toilet paper. There's snot on the pillow. Moan. Wonder if you should have a whole lot of cheese before going to sleep again. CHEESE DREAMS, MEET FEVER DREAMS. Remember you have no cheese. Fuck. Wish your mum was here to make you some soup, or a cup of tea, or to hear you moan about how shitty everything is. Or bring you cheese. Try to go back to sleep, but your face hurts too much to sleep. Your face hurts too much. Your eye sockets, your mouth, your nose.

Declare "MY FACE HURTS" to your ceiling while listening to your creepy neighbour yell indecipherable things at the universe. Look around and ponder the miraculous way a room, once miraculously clean, instantly becomes a bomb site once the owner becomes ill. This room was goddamn TIDY before the Great Illness of 2013. Maybe this is what it's like to be crazy shut-in, lying amidst a grotesque mess of clothes and used tissues (toilet paper), wearing the same clothes you were wearing two days ago. Maybe you should buy some cats? Listen to the same Barry White song for about half an hour on repeat. Disco fucking rules.

Realise you got a message from a friend. It asks, "Get lucky with any musos in Apollo Bay bro?!" Hardly. If you've done this correctly, the only thing you will have picked up is a FUCKING DOSE OF EVERYTHING HURTING.

How attractive you will be at this stage.

Thoughts don't quite make sense. Almost leave the house. Don't. Go into the kitchen and stare at the cupboard for a while. Think about lunch, then decide to drink more Lemsip. Wish your dog was here. He wouldn't care about how repulsive you are, all spluttering phlegm and snot-faced illness.

Potter around the house like a senile old man. Make a Spotify playlist called "Sickness Jamz". Groan. Watch about five episodes of My So-Called Life. Decide your snot is very angsty now. Decide Claire Danes is very good at crying. Wonder if Angela ever realised how utterly normal and un-special she is. Decide you've been awake too long. Sleep until it's dark. Wake up - your housemates are home.

Stagger into the living room, looking like an extra from The Walking Dead.

"Oh man, you are home!"
"Euurgh. Yeah. I've been here all day. COUGHCOUGH BLEURGHSOFDLSKGBSDUIHFDSKLJ."
Your housemate will definitely take several steps back. "Dude. You're really fucking sick."
Groan and retreat back to your hovel of illness.

Stay the fuck back bro.

Put pawpaw ointment on your nose, and ingest your body weight in cold and flu tablets. Decide you should wash your hair. Know you won't. Lie in bed and listen to the myriad wonderful noises that emanate from your person every time you breathe. Your chest and nostrils are making sweet, sweet, guttural and disgusting music together. Spend about ten minutes laughing and wheezing at this comment on Reddit. If nothing else, this little episode has given you a glimpse into a #foreveralone future. Decide it isn't so bad, if you take out the whole wanting-to-die thing. Watch JFK, while nearly coughing up a lung. Make sure not to actually cough up a lung however - a whole lot of phlegm is much more manageable.

Stare at Kevin Costner talking to Donald Sutherland. None of their words make sense and your nose has been ravaged in a decidedly BAD way. Decide you're going to detox. Vow to go for a run every day, and eat a healthy amount of greens. No more booze. You'll drink a litre of water and a cup of dandelion tea every day. You'll enjoy the sunshine. Decide to forever be healthy.

If you had the strength you'd flip a table in rage. But you don't, so you whimper a little and watch the rest of JFK in bed with a roll of toilet paper next to your face.

How to Get Sick

PLEASE NOTE: This is not a guide to becoming "fully sick". If you follow these instructions in the expectation that people will describe you as "so sick" in a "you got like, ten feet of air bro!" way, you will be disappointed. Because you will also feel like shit.

Hate summer. Revel in the arrival of autumn, in a cloud of happiness that manifests itself in shorts and a t-shirt in slightly chilly weather. You're just happy not to be Fucking Miserably Sweaty, so you decide to be all like, "FUCK YOU" to jumpers and pants. Whatever. Haters gon' hate.

Get sick. Then find that a series of good friends' birthdays align with being paid, with finally having enough dosh to enjoy a weekend or three. Decide that this amazing stroke of good fortune isn't about to be dampened by a stupid cold and barely being able to breathe. Throw caution to the wind. Fuck it. Buy All the Shots for All the Friends. Have a string of stupidly fun and stupidly OTT nights out with your ridiculously amazing friends, while being sick. They're awesome. Find a slew of nonsensical pictures on your phone. Still manage to get plenty of work done. Feel victorious. Then you get better, despite the absurd Bane-beating-on-a-henchman assault you're giving your body and immune system. Think, "That wasn't so bad". Enjoy more birthdays, more celebrations. Make memories for the ages. Do this for a few weeks. Then wake up feeling all like:

Vow to quit that ridiculous behaviour, because you've got a Proper Job now and if there's one thing you've learned, it's that when you get Run Down, you get Really Sick. Besides that, no one wants to be the Shame Panda. Admit it, you decide to quit that ridiculous behaviour mostly because you don't want to be Shame Panda. 

Quit that ridiculous behaviour for about a week, enjoy being healthy again. Right in time for a music festival.

Spend the morning at work just about bursting with excitement. You're about to spend the weekend with friends crammed in a house in Apollo Bay, enjoying the music festival. Fuck yeah. There's a million other things you should be doing, but the prospect of good times and good vibes with good friends by the bay is too good to refuse.

Begin the drive. Feel tired. Nearly fall asleep at the wheel. That's disconcerting, but luckily that serves to wake you up. Down some energy drink and sing along loudly to Barry White to stay awake. Arrive. Get changed, rug up - it's going to be cold. Apollo Bay Music Festival is always fucking cold. Down a few beers, and some pizza. It's awesome to be with awesome pals, in an awesome and quaint little house. Unfortunately you're volunteering (you cheap-ass), so it's time to go to your shift as stage assistant.

You soon learn that "stage assistant" effectively means "bussy". And occasionally "fetcher of toilet paper" and even less occasionally "she who introduces bands to the stage manager". It's freezing back there and you soon find that T-SHIRT is inadequate winter wear. The thrill of wearing an "Access All Areas" lanyard quickly fades; from backstage you spy your friends dancing up a storm. Still, you take some rather rad photos from your vantage point and eventually remember to put on a jacket.

Eventually your exceedingly dull shift ends in the early hours of morning and you finally meet up with your pals. You're incredibly tired. Confoundingly so. After a while of dancing you all make the trek home and you get to your bunk. Suddenly realise there's no ladder to get up to the top bunk. Stand there like an idiot for a few minutes, staring at the mattress. It stares back at you, face-level. That ain't happening you think. Drag some blankets onto the cold floor and pass out.

Replace bed with floor.

Wake up after a few hours. Wake up with a chainsaw in your throat. You can't breathe. Your nose is runny. Fuck. Damn-near shake your fist at the heavens. Bacon makes things better, but only a little bit. Push the nagging feeling of "YOU'RE GETTING SICK" out of your mind. The day is spent hanging out, laying on the grass in the surprisingly warm late-April sun, and wandering around the market. Idyllic and superb. Go to your second shift. Your throat feels like a nun chuck wielding goblin has taken up residency and is having a conniption. Or a mosh. Fffffuuuuuu. Find your nose is running and you sneeze about ten times a row backstage. "Uhh. Bless you?" says a drummer. Say thank you from behind watering eyes and a snotty nose. Please men, form an orderly queue.

Reassure yourself that you've gone harder through worse. Remind yourself of the weekend just a few weeks ago. That was harder through worse, right? What was your pal Neil's saying? Oh yes: YOUR BODY WILL ALWAYS RECOVER. Have your doubts about that. Vaguely sense that maybe your body's had enough, and is ready to flip a table in rage. A table of pure, undiluted sickness. Of snot and fever and coughing. Enjoy the rest of the weekend. Dance a little. Eat a lot. Laugh even more. Stand in the rain. That's good, right?

As you drive home, your nose begins to run non-stop. Use your tshirt to wipe it up. Spy yourself in the mirror. You look like shit. Pale, dark rings under your eyes, and wearing a snotty t-shirt. Your t-shirt is on backwards. You just used your tshirt to blow your damn nose. It's begun. Oh, god. Oh, GOD. NO. NO. NO NO NO NO NO.

IF ONLY YOU CARED MORE ABOUT YOUR HEALTH.

IF ONLY YOU WORE A JACKET MORE OFTEN.

IF ONLY YOU HAD AN ISSUE WITH SLEEPING ON THE FLOOR.

IF ONLY YOU DIDN'T FILL YOUR FACE WITH THINGS THAT MEAN YOU DON'T EVER GET A PROPER NIGHT'S SLEEP.

The race against time begins. You're Sick. Congratulations.

Fuck.

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!

Kings of the D-Floor

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.

A Deer in Headlights or: STATE FINAL, LOL

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

Comedy Stylin'

I've made a decision that could end up being either an amazing move, or the Worst Decision I've Ever Made. Basically I'll come out feeling victorious, or in dire need of therapy for years to come. I can't really imagine it being anything much in between those two extremes.

I've decided to enter Raw Comedy.

I'm not entirely sure what possessed me to sign up, but I did.

Actually, I lie. I'm pretty sure I can actually pinpoint my thought process and motivation.

Firstly, Mitch has always told me he'd like to see me onstage attempting standup comedy. He's obviously biased, but I have to admit that I do feel a sense of accomplishment and victory when I make someone whose opinion I value erupt into cackles of laughter. So I felt good for a bit, then forgot all about any notion to give it a go.

Then, I spent a few months being unemployed and job-hunting, to very limited success. I guess signing up was my weirdsville way being proactive, even if it was just to do something fucking absurd.

So now I've got to do it. The time has come for me to actually follow through with what I said I'd do and I am FUCKING ABOUT TO CRAP MY DACKS, I kid you not guys.

At some points I'll be quietly okay about it, thinking Oh yeah, this won't be so bad. I make my friends laugh all the time! ... and then I'll think about it some more and I'll begin to panic and sweat and I'll need to sit down.

But I'm going to do it. Because I've told just about everyone I know that I'm doing it, and I tested some "material" on the guys I'm working with at the moment and the more people I get to come, the more like a coward I'll feel if I pussy the hell out. I think now I almost don't even care if I win or if I do particularly well, as long as I do that. Actually, I take that back. I'd love to do well. But mostly, I just want to prove that I can do it.

I CAN'T PUSSY OUT NOW. I MADE A FACEBOOK EVENT, YO.

If this looks like the kind of silliness you'd be into, come along. 

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.

Adventures with Morse.

(REPRESENTATION)

Given the hood that Castle Mega is situated in, the general demographic of our neighbours can pretty accurately be described as "similarly situated young folk" or "old folk" or "wholesome families" containing at least one "very botoxed female". To the delight of my mother, it's a rather uneventful place to call home. That is of course, apart from our next door neighbour. The very same next door neighbour we've decided - after about six odd months of inhabiting the Castle - is completely and disconcertingly Weird, and MOST PROBABLY a murderer.

At a party we threw a while back (which we were very sure he was going to take issue with and maybe go on some sort of killing spree as a result of), I couldn't help but regale some friends with a handful of the creepy-ass things he's done in the past. After I'd brought my pals up to date with his antics they stood there, mouths agape. As one, they slowly turned around to stare, slightly terrified, at the wall dividing our flat from his.

Mike met him long before I did. His introduction to our neighbour was ol' Morse leaping out of the shadows to cast his creepy-ass light upon us occurred on an evening like no other. Mike was chaining his bike to the bench outside our door, when Morse burst out of his flat, truly enraged.

"WHAT'RE YA DOIN'??"
Mike, understandably flabbergasted, could only tell the truth. "I'm locking up my bike."
Morse stared him down for a moment, then disappeared as quickly as he'd barged into view. Weird, we thought. Not troubling.

A short time after that first run-in, Mike was about to leave to meet me at the ol' cinematorium when he suddenly heard banging sounds coming from right outside his window. His window's pretty secluded, so someone would have to make a specific trip there in order to bang metal on metal (which is what it sounded like). Miguel then went over to his other window, following the sound of footsteps, to see Morse storming back to his house, glaring at Mike through the window. He wasn't holding anything. Disconcerting.

The resulting conversation between Mike and I became the catalyst for the nickname that's well and truly stuck, long after we learned his actual name. In Disturbia, David Morse plays the weird-ass neighbour who wants to kill Shia Le Boef.

"Dude. He's fucking weird."
"I think he's going to kill us."
"He definitely doesn't want to be our pals."
"We're Shia LeBoef. He's David Morse."
"Fuuuuuuuuuck."

Note: I haven't actually seen Disturbia because the only thing I can tolerate LeDudd in is
this SNL sketch.

In any case, that's his name now.

A few days later, I get home from work (RIP Full Time Employment) and walk past his flat to ours, like any other day. This time though, his door is open and he's standing there, behind the screen door. Looming. Not doing anything, just looming there. Seeing him glaring and looming out of the corner, I jump in surprise and let out an involuntary yelp.

We stare at each other for a moment.

"Um. Hi?" I offer.

He continues to stare at me for a moment. Uncomfortable pause. I make a noise and rush the fuck inside.

Later that evening I decide to go for a run. I leave the house and walk up the stairs at the front of our block to the street. I look behind me, and see Morse leaning around his door, staring at the entrance to our house. I watch him for a few seconds. He's perfectly still, gaze fixated on our door. I run the fuck away.

After my run I walk back to our door, and he's loitering outside his door. I decide to take action. Maybe if he knows our names he'll decide we're worth sparing, I think to myself.

"Hi. I'm Rebecca." I held out my hand and gave him my most charming smile. "Nice to meet you!"

He shakes my hand. I'd expected him to answer with a "Hi, my name is _____" but instead he just glared at me while holding my outstretched hand. A very uncomfortable pause ensues, seemingly lasting eons.

"Uh...I live with my housemate, Michael. I think maybe you've seen him around?"

He stares at me for a moment longer.

"Yes." He says. "I have."

I rush the fuck inside and wash my hand.

Just about every run-in has been like that over the past few months. Looming, uncomfortable pauses and strange looks. It's a little disconcerting, especially when the occasional yelled expletives drift through the wall. After introducing myself to our other neighbours (all lovely), I soon found out that he must've taken some sort of a shine to me. Simply put, he yells at just about everyone in our quiet hood, and he hasn't yelled at me yet. Unless of course, the expletives heard through the wall were directed at me. Usually, they're roars of "FffffuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK." so you know, they could be anything.

No, instead he'd just glared at me.

Anyway, like I said every story since those first few have been just about as creepy or disconcerting as the last. Like when he demanded to know how many of us live at our place. Or when he loomed in FRONT of his door for a while. Or when the car crashed in front of our house and he spent the next four hours yelling about "THE ALMIGHTY CRAAAAAASH" that he'd witnessed to everybody at the scene (believe me, that is a long-winded story worth telling in its own right) and anybody who'd listen.

Amusingly, after my initial shock had worn off, I suddenly realised that watching Morse ranting and raving about seeing the horrible car crash ("WITH ME OWN EYES!!!") had been the longest I'd ever seen Morse talk, or interact with people. Or be out of his house, for that matter. By then Mike had arrived back from his weekend away and I was sitting outside, my attention divided between watching Morse yell wildly, and being intrigued by the flaming car across from our house. Suddenly, I sprinted back inside.

"DUDE. MORSE. HE'S SPEAKING. He's talking to people." 

Forget the horrible car crash, Morse was outside, talking, being a mostly functioning person. Not a looming, creepy figure that yells instead of speaking. Interesting realisation, that was. That Morse is an actual human with a name and the ability to interact with other humans. To be honest, I did become to be less creeped out by him for a while. I got a phone call from my brother when Morse was on the news yelling loudly about the car crash on the evening news, ("AN ALMIGHTY CRAAAASH!") which was pretty hilarious. Of course, the feeling that perhaps we aren't living next to a weirdo possible murderer lasted all of about a week, because before long he was back to his yelling, looming creepy-ass ways. You know, demanding to know how many people live in our flat, people knocking on the door inquiring as to his whereabouts, things like that.

Mike, Jaz and I recently compared notes on recent Morse antics while sitting at our picnic bench outside. All of a sudden someone noticed his window was open. An uncomfortable hush fell over the table. You could almost hear a wolf, or coyote, or creepy wind blow, or something equally as ominous cast a shadow over us.

Eh, we'll see how things go I guess. As long as no one tells my highly strung mother, I think we'll be okay.

Come over at your own risk.