Breakfast in Toorak

Personally, I'd have expected something more well-spoken from the Toorak breed of old lady. 

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

I Tell Shitty Jokes Now

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

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

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

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

Bitch, please. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A: DUNG!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wanted to get along, little dogie! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

I took a swig of my beer.

"Do you want to hear another one?"

He considered the question for a moment.

"No...not really."

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

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

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

Why did the scarecrow win an award? 

BECAUSE HE WAS OUTSTANDING IN HIS FIELD. 

Chickens

Remi's in town, a non-stop weekend begins. 

And so, I give you a video of Werner Herzog talking about chickens. 

Werner Herzog on Chickens from Tom Streithorst on Vimeo.

Today's Internet Harvest

This is definitely worth watching.

Hello from ant1mat3rie on Vimeo.

So is this. Which is apparently really quite old, but I'd never seen it before. So it still provides me with much, much amusement.

A (mostly) rage-less Christmas

A couple of weeks ago I was wandering around a certain shopping center. At this point in time the exact reason for my being there in the first place escapes me, as whenever possible I try to avoid spending time in awful suburban black holes of retail boredom, especially during the silly season.

I was walking around the certain shopping center and lo and behold, I was near my old place of employment. It happens to be a cafe specialising in chocolate goods, for those of you folk playing at home. I heard the strains of Bing Crosby's voice floating in the air from up on high and suddenly like a bolt of be-tinseled lightning it it hit me - that this would be the first Christmas in FIVE YEARS that I wouldn't be working in retail or hospitality. It'd be the first extended family Christmas lunch in about three years I'd be able to attend in its entirety because I happened to be working on Boxing Day, or had to go to work to set up for a Boxing Day sale, and my extended family had decided that Christmas lunch would fall on Boxing Day. This would be the first Christmas in five years in which I'd be able to be rested, in which I'd be able to keep regular patterns of sleep instead of mentally and physically preparing myself for the midnight shifts, the long hours of scanning through gift cards, or unwrapping endless DVDs and CDs, or serving hoards of angry shoppers their post-shop hot chocolates and chocolate desserts after they demanded to know why a dessert bar doesn't serve something savory, you really should be serving something that isn't chocolate you know.

My GOD, is it ever a relief. I can watch The Shop Around the Corner and National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation and When Harry Met Sally (my yule-tide cinematic offerings of choice) without dreading going to work the next day. Without dreading the absurd hour I'd have to arrive to open the store in order to unwrap yet another box of sale DVDs, or to spend another day trying to convince people that they REALLY need to buy into a chocolate gift box offer that in truth probably isn't saving them any money at all.

Christmas 2006, 2007 and 2008 were spent working at a record store. I take that back. "Record store" implies something like Polyester Records. I'll rephrase; I spent those years working at a now-defunct chain store specialising in CDs and DVDs, whose name rhymed with "Blanity".

I could wax lyrical for hours (you think I'm exaggerating?) describing the myriad ways humankind's stupidity was on show during my years behind the counter there. Some of the more memorable examples include the woman who walked in, past rows and rows of CDs and asked a co-worker of mine, "Do you sell CDs here?". Or the man who asked me, "There's this song ... it's got trumpets in it. I don't know the name, or who sings it, but it's definitely on a compilation CD". Or the people who'd tell us our prices were too expensive (I don't care), that they were going to shop somewhere else (good), or who'd run up to me as I was pulling down the roller doors and yell "LEMME IN I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I WANT" then spend ten minutes deciding if in the end, they really wanted it at all.

People would shove each other out of the way, would leave their trolleys or food or children in the middle of the aisle, would push in front of each other in the line, then yell at me when I asked who was next.

Please, to observe.
Woman: I'd like twenty gift cards please.
Me: ...Okay. But just so you know, this will take rather a long time. You see, I have to do them all individually. Are you sure you want twenty?
Woman: YES I'M SURE.
Me: Okay.
Working as quickly as I can, I grab boxes and write details and scan the cards through the computer and eftpos thing.
Woman: WHY is this taking SO LONG?
Me: ... Like I said, I have to do each of these individually. I told you it would take a long time.
Woman: Well, I have A LOT of other shopping to do.

Christmas 2008 I also worked at Bardot. It's okay, I was just as puzzled and shocked. Looking back, it was almost as if I was job hunting, blacked out, then woke up in a store blasting house music, surrounded by heavily made-up skinny girls. I wasn't asked to stay on after Christmas.

Christmas 2009 and 2010 was spent at the chocolate cafe. Mercifully, it was a Jewish business and so we were for the most part spared the torture of Christmas carols on repeat. Which is more than I can say after working at Blanity. I now have the words of Michael Buble's back-catalog etched into my mind, as well as the Top 40 releases of 2006-2008, and maybe every pop-singer reinterpreted Christmas carol ever.

Anyway, even if we didn't have to listen to Christmas carols instore, that didn't save us from local children's' choirs singing outside our store, or from the shoppers with their game-faces on and their screeching spawn yapping at their heels. Aside from the usual working-at-a-cafe gripes, every little annoying thing that happened was accompanied for the most part by the look people get after wandering up and down a shopping center for hours on end, slowly ticking off names, their energy and will to live diminishing with each store visited and shopgirl chirpily asking, "Can I help you with anything?". Since when did Christmas become so painful? Probably at about the time one begins to earn money and thus can buy presents for family members.

Goddamn, for a post that claims to be rage-less, this is full of plenty rage. I guess that's indicative of how enjoyable past Christmases have been, and thus how AMAZINGLY OVERJOYED I am to have the days leading up to the 25th of December chock-full of happy vibes instead of weary bones and jeans that reek of chocolate.

I went to Chaddy a couple of weekends ago, while in the throes of a hangover no less, and as I attempted to navigate through the crowds and the trolleys and the prams I was struck with one thought that stood out in front of all the others trundling around my brain: that I wanted to thank my lucky stars that I wasn't working there.

To all those who are working in retail or hospitality, I salute you and wish you the best of luck.

To everyone else, I am glad to have finally joined your ranks. I'm going to rejoice in my yule time off and watch me some Jimmy Stewart. The thought of sitting in front of the TV with a cup of tea with the Christmas lights flashing out of the corner of my eye makes me all manner of happy. Cheap thrills y'all, cheap thrills.

Every time. Every time I watch this someone decides to chop onions in the room.

Shit Girls Say

I'd quickly like to turn your attention this.

Spawned from the brains of those behind Twit-sensation - perhaps a perfect example of "less is more" - Shit Girls Say, two videos have of late been sent into the world of the internet lampooning (celebrating?) the things lady-folk are wont to say.

I'd be lying if I said my day-to-day speaking was completely devoid of a few of the phrases uttered within the surprisingly well-shot and good-looking videos. Of particular note would have to be "Could you read this and see if it makes sense?" and "Could you do me a huge favour..." and "I HAD TO GET UP AT LIKE, SIX THIS MORNING". And for that I apologise.

Watching the videos at my desk I had my hands clasped at my mouth, attempting to stifle hysterical giggles. I mean shit, girls really do say that shit! All the time. ALL THE TIME. At any rate, the view counter on these babies are climbing ever-rapidly so one can only imagine there'll be more released in the near future. Here's episode one, in which Juliette Lewis's cameo alone is worth price of admission.

TWINSIES! 

Times I have enjoyed dancing.

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. 

And that is why it was a time I enjoyed dancing. 

Ruining my productivity

Hurr. I mean, apart from the usual hours spent on Reddit.

Behold! The reasons for productivity being down, and for procrastination being up.

Here are some things that have either made me pants-happy or heart-happy or a little bit of both.

Firstly, here's a write up of Mitch at 4bars. He's doing an amazing job running Ezra Pound, which I will confidently declare as one of the coolest bars in Perth. Even if he wasn't perhaps my closest friend in the world, I'd still gush about Ezra. And believe me, I think that after my recent trip out west I'm pretty well qualified to cast my opinion on the different elements of the Perth nightlife.

Over the past few days, I have spent an obscene amount of time laughing while reading Axe Cop. I haven't laughed that much in a really, really long time. This was the kind of cackling, uncontrollable laughter that makes breathing impossible and makes stomach muscles cry out in pain. I sent it to my brother, then could hear the strains of his laughter echoing all the way to my backyard Reb Cave.

A couple of nights ago I was sitting around, doing some work with the sounds of Happy Days re-runs providing a background soundtrack. Suddenly, I found this video and my night was ruined. It's Giovanni Ribisi, sporting sunglasses he's designed for Barton Perreira. Well shit, I wasn't expecting that. Turns out he was the face of a 2010 campaign, but that was new to me. It's a very different image to the one I have in my mind of Mr Ribisi; that of Amazing Actor, one who is wont to take Quite Intense Roles. I'll admit readily that I've been rather pants-happy for him since seeing Saving Private Ryan all those years ago. Even in my early teens, my taste was strange at best. My friends had posters of Eminem and the Backstreet Boys, I was working my way through Giovanni Ribisi's filmography. Which is what my night degenerated to after seeing this:

Right, so my brother sent me this trailer pretty much immediately after it was released. I think that while watching it I made an audible squeak of excitement. With no exaggeration in the slightest, I know that I can confidently say that I have not looked forward to a film this much for years. Dare I say it, not since The Phantom Menace (I was eleven, so sue me) has my excitement level been this high. The cast, the characters, the sheer badass nerdery of it all ... chances are I'll be in some sort of a frenzy by the time it's actually released. I'm most likely digging myself into a hole of disappointment; I don't know if any film could possibly live up to the ridiculous expectations I'm building. That knowledge won't stop my from clapping my hands with delight whenever I watch the trailer however. 

The mantle for the real revelation of the week however, is reserved for a film I saw a couple of days ago, Bill Cunningham New York. I'll be writing a review of it tomorrow for RHUM and I'll chuck a link to it once it's done. Before that though, I'm going to take a moment to do a little bit of squealy, hand flappy gushing. 

My GOD, I have not been put in a mood that amazing by a film in a very, very long time. After about twenty minutes or so into the film, I began to count the amount of times I got the shivers. I'm not even kidding. I think I got up to about seven times. This documentary is so gorgeous, so fascinating, so touching, I left the screening with a smile on my dial and I proceeded to float around the city for the rest of the afternoon in a happy little cloud.

If you've used your powers of deduction after glancing at the title, you'd be right in saying it's about Bill Cunningham. He's a fashion photographer and writer for the New York Times, and has been one of the preeminent fashion photographers - namely street fashion - since the 1960s. He's a man in his eighties now, who until recently lived in a studio in Carnegie Hall with filing cabinets of photos in place of a kitchen and proper bathroom. In an age where every man, woman, kid and marmot has a fashion blog, Bill Cunningham is the most incredible breath of fresh air, albeit a breathe of fresh air who's been at it for decades. Devoid of the douchbaggery and smugness of other fashion photographers (I can't help but think of interviews with the Sartorialist that I've read recently when I say that), Cunningham is one of the seemingly dying breed who do it for the sheer love of it. He declares that "if you don't take money, they can't tell you what to do!", zipping around New York on his bike, not ever appearing to give a darn about the high society he rubs shoulders with. He's a sight to behold, resplendent in his old blue jacket sitting in the front row of a Paris fashion show, alongside models and shiny people with incredible posture. 

If you like documentaries, if you've ever enjoyed taking a photo, or if you've ever reveled in wearing something pretty, you really MUST watch Bill Cunningham New York. I think it's released in early November, but don't quote me on that. Until then, watch the trailer. Then go check out his weekly slideshow for the Times. 

I has Twitter

I know, right.

Follow me, so I don't look like a loser with no followers.

@RebNotBec

Fight For Your Right - Revisited (or, every hilarious celebrity ever)

I know this is a few days old, but GODDAMN, you need to watch it if you haven't already.

Seriously, it's hilarious. Superb. And it's got everyone in it, ever.
The credits list the actors involved, and I actually went back to play the ol' "Spot Steve Buscemi" game (amongst a couple of others).

Oh, and here's the new album being streamed at Madison Square Garden.

Soroh Jossico Porkor.

It's been a fairly busy week. Many shows to see, many reviews to write. Also, in between that I've been attempting to earn some money and organise a trip to South America.

I'm going to do some shameless self-promotion right now. Sozlol. Would you like to read a review of Dave Thornton? Well, you can! One that I wrote! Also, here's one of Kitty Flanagan! And Ava Vidal! Wow, guys! So much for you to read!

Actually, it's been a fairly interesting experience. After picking up my tickets to Dave Thornton, with Brian in tow, it suddenly occurred to me that I'd be reviewing someone I know personally. Well, no shit. Let it never be said that I'm not quick off the mark, guys. I saw him on the steps of the Town Hall and was about to bound over to say hi. Then I realised what that conversation would have been like.

"HEY DAVE! I haven't seen you since Edinburgh! How's things? I'm seeing your show tonight! And I'm reviewing it! How funny is that? Speaking of funny, you better be!"

Yeah. Awkward. So I didn't. Luckily, his show actually was really funny, so it was all okay.

Unfortunately, Ava Vidal wasn't so funny. So then I had to get over my niceness and write a bad review. Of course, I'd written bad reviews before. Only, typically they're of films. Which are far easier to criticise and lambast than a human person who was onstage before you, being very brave and telling jokes.

I got over it though.

Not up yet is a review of Josh Earl, who was unbelievably great. I urge you to see him. His show was super. It makes you laugh, then go "Aww."

I saw Jason Byrne last night. I remember I saw his show last year and TG remarked, "What, is that the Irish guy that yells at the audience for an hour?" ... well, yes. He is. But he does it so goddamn well!! I haven't laughed that hard for a long while. Like, gasping, tearful laughter. I kind of wonder if he'd be quite as funny sans Irish accent, but does that really matter when he's got audience members skipping rope and he's bounding around the stage, cackling? Not really, in my opinion.

A special mention has to go to Dave (not Thornton, but Doov) for very patiently reading through drafted paragraphs and constantly reassuring me, "That reads well" or "It's fine" or "(Y)" ... sozol.

In return, I present you with this:

(I  haven't used photoshop in ages, and this was very haphazard. Might do a better one later.)

EDIT: ALSO, THIS:

Things, etc.

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

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

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

Last shift's highlights included:

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

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

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

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

So that's fairly exciting.

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

Ten Sexy Ladies by Joshua Allen

A cat that looks like Lenin.

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

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

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

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

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

Irish Neil (One for Mitch.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Artist's impression.

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

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


Reb Style.

Reb Style.

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

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

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

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

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

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

WE SHOULD MAKE OUT." 

And so we did.

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

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

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

The Internet is a Playground.

Derp.

I'm exhausted. I was only meant to work two shifts this week, starting from tomorrow. As it turns out however, I ended up working today and also yesterday, two shifts that happened to end up being excruciatingly tiring, busy and fraught with vital cafe machinery breaking, as well as giant groups of dudds. It makes me wonder what the hell I'm doing working at that damn cafe, and makes me wonder why I haven't stepped up my Looking For a Real Job efforts. I adore my co-workers, and it really is quite enjoyable much of the time but still...

Staggering in the front door however, my weary bones suddenly received a jolt of PURE UNDILUTED JOY when I spied the package waiting on the table for me. Could it be? Possibly? YES.

My copy of The Internet is a Playground by David Thorne of 27b/6 finally arrived, after at least three weeks of impatient waiting.

If you haven't ever been to his site, David Thorne is one of the FUNNIEST people I have ever known to have existed. Absolute biting, absurd wit. Amazing. Go there. NOW NOW NOW NOW.

Also, I wrote a review about Morning Glory. I probably could have written it a bit better, but you can read it if you wish.

Bizarre Things I Like #1

Country Music.
It's true. So often, when people are asked "what kind of music do you like?", they respond with "everything except rap and country!" ...  and you know what? I used to be the same.

Somewhere, at some point during the last three or four years however, something changed. I can't give you a solid date, or a point of epiphany. But somehow, I became a lover of both kinds; country AND western.

Know what? I lied. There probably was a catalyst. In around 2007 my obsessive personality finally moved on from Star Wars (it's true) to none other than the pre-fab four themselves, The Monkees. The TV show, the albums (from the third album onwards, they DID play their own instruments, so you can shut up thank you), the merchandise. I know for a fact that I'm still puzzled what exactly began my obsession with Davy, Micky, Mike and Peter but I do know that this bizarre love led me to banjoes and Dolly Parton and Ray Price. Exploring the careers of each Monkee after the hype died, I made a discovery. Firstly, that there's not much to find in the way of post-Monkee gold. Secondly, that the gold that there is to be found belongs to Michael Nesmith. After the death of the Monkees, Texas-born Mike released a great number of AMAZING country albums. I bought them, not knowing what to expect. Certainly, I did not expect my mind to be blown. I bought that string of albums because of my love of ol' wool-hat, and I loved them, in spite of my so called hatred of country.

The unlikely catalyst for my love of country.

To the non-believers, hear this. They're really fucking good albums. Michael Nesmith and the First National Band ... Michael Nesmith on his own, with Red Rhodes. They're REALLY good. So began my love of country.

I devoured everything I could. From Ray Price to Dillard and Clark. The Louvin Brothers, Patsy Cline, fucking Porter Wagoner, Dolly Parton. The Statler Brothers, Ralph Stanley, Keith Whitley, The Carter Family, Earl Scruggs. Thanks to the wonders of the internet, and a lad that since has been named The Charming Man, my iTunes library became thoroughly hillbilly.

Ray Price. Hero, y'all.

So why on earth do I love country music so much?

Is it the gaudy nudie suits? Is it the redneck comments that go with each of the youtube videos I watch?

Notsomuch.

Gram Parsons, badass.

• Those harmonies are .... amazing. There's something about those country harmonies that just makes a part of me go to a happy place. I can't describe what exactly it is, but it's definitely true.
• That accent is pretty great, y'all. 
• You know what? I have a feeling that a large portion of the reason I love country, western, bluegrass, hillbilly shit so much is to do with the subject matter of a great deal of the songs. I'm not a particularly religious person, nor am I a citizen of the American South but I know that during times of woes and hardship, there's something really quite reassuring about listening to The Carter Family singing about keeping on the sunny side, or Ralph Stanley singing "Angel Band". Simple beliefs and earnest singing. 
• By that same token, country music just seems to capture broken-hearted woes absolutely precisely. Nothing like a bit of Ray Price to help you nurse a battered heart and ego. 
• I need to put a disclaimer here. I don't particularly like modern country music. To me, it's all about those old-timey sounds and harmonies. There's something about that old timey sound that is really ... I don't know. Comforting. As well as plain ol' entertaining and lovely to my ears. 
• Also, I really, really like banjos.

Feast your ears on this:
Firstly, Johnny Cash, the Carter Family, Carl Perkins and the Statler Brothers performing "Keep on the Sunny Side"

Now, Ralph Stanley, Keith Whitley, and the Clinch Mountain Boys .... damn embed code disabled. I can't be bothered doing it the long way via the scenic route.

AAAAAAAND. Lastly. Ray Price, with "Heartaches by the Number"



It's hard going trying to find like-minded, country-loving twenty-somethings ... but goshdarnit, am I ever going to try.

Captain's Log

Yes.

A night spent with my laptop, browsing Reddit, not sleeping. Oh Reddit, if you were a person we would be wed.

Cheap thrills, y'all!
Internet thrills.

Spent a small portion of this afternoon on the phone to Mitch, who is settling in over yonder in Perth. He told me of his exploits the night before, that he's looking for a place to live. I told him about Linc's gig. He's got a job at a rad prohibition-themed bar, I'm not nauseous every morning anymore. Wins all round! He was on the phone whilst driving, and so our conversation was peppered with shouted abuse at fellow drivers, as well as cackles of laughter as he swerved onto the footpath to attempt to run over Steno, his partner-in-crime.

Speaking to him brought not only the lulz, but a certain amount of sunshine and cheer that was lacking as the day wore on. While we were separated for a long time while he was in Ireland, then when I was all over and around Europe, it seems that now that he's in Perth, being apart from him is at it's most sucky.

New shoes, new beard.

 When I got back, I took a "wilderness sabbatical" to Geelong, to spend a couple of days with Mittens. Recharging, getting over jet-lag, watching a few films, sitting in the sun. Maybe doing a bit of sulking about being back, but that's okay. The shock of being back took far longer than I expected to adjust to. Wondering "what now?" and "...should I want a proper job?"

Luckily, hanging out in good old G-town while the boys got themselves prepared for the road trip to Perth made all back-home anxiety completely dissipate, at least for a couple of days. We spoke of potential scripts, of insane plans, of various conquests we each managed to notch up during our time apart. I also spent almost the entire time wearing a sleeping bag suit. Which is rad, I think, in anyone's book.

No McConnaughey-ing the night away, or Michael Bay marathons, at least for a while. 

Trolling the High Seas

This guy is an absolute champion.

Troll of the seven seas, marry me please.

My hero.

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