I've never been good at numbers.

I'm not even kidding. I went to put more money on my damn Myki then found myself staring blankly at the numbers. You know when something's so second nature that after a while, you don't even think about it? Like walking? I find sometimes I'll think too much about walking, and I'll end up walking funny because I'm thinking about each step. Same thing here. I had to remember what actual numbers make up my PIN and suddenly -ZILCH. Nothing. Nada. 

To make matters worse, I've somehow also managed to lose my drivers' license ... either at home, or on some sort of rampage over the weekend. 

I'm obviously really good at cards, and being a responsible adult (and penning haikus, duh). 

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.

I have actually been doing things.

Honestly, I have. While often "things" equates to consuming three boxes of barbeque Shapes within the space of two days and enduring the subsequent shame spiral, it also means I've been doing Legitimate Constructive Activities as well.

Apart from my usual role as photographer (read: occasionally the only way I end up leaving the house during the week) for the lovely and very cool guys at Venuemob, the lovely and very cool guys at Venuemob have recently enlisted me for another task. The task has been to write and/or re-write a very large amount of copy for their website, which is being re-done, re-launched and re-snazzed sometime this month (I believe).

That's meant writing all manner of nice things about venues around Melbourne, and finding all sorts of new and interesting ways to say "this venue caters to groups of all sizes" or "this venue has many rooms for you to use". It's been a challenge, albeit an enjoyable one. It's also probably a good thing, to have something force me to use my brain for things that aren't watching endless episodes of Friday Night Lights in between writing drivel and/or quite silly articles.

Speaking of quite silly articles (SEGUE! SEGUE! SEGUE!), I've recently begun writing for Port Whine. I've only written a couple so far; one about having no money, and one about my rather embarrassing penchant for nerds.  You can read them if you think that's the kind of silliness you'd be into.

I've also been recruited by Perth-based mag Colosoul, although the only thing I've done so far is for the print issue so I don't have a link for you because YOU CAN'T LINK TO IRL PAPER ON THE INTERNET, DINGUS.

Gangster Squad or: The Untouchables Do LA

"C'mon Josh. I'll do my De Niro if you give us a cuddle."

The Untouchables Do Los Angeles. That's what Gangster Squad is in a nutshell, and I say that without a hint of exaggeration. A hard-ass monster mob boss played by an Oscar-Winning giant of the cinema giant tightens his stranglehold on a decaying city and is taken down by a rag-tag group of misfits led by an idealistic honest cop. Along the way, families are attacked, the brainiac gets killed, and the mobster does a throat-destroying amount of yelling. Sound familiar? Of course it does!

To his credit, Ruben 'Zombieland' Fleischer's take on the gangster movie provides all the eardrum shattering shoot-outs, be-suited men in hats, and the montages of jazz music and violence that you'd expect and probably thoroughly enjoy. Unfortunately, despite the stellar cast and eye-catching design, Gangster Squad is also riddled with cliche and ends up being the kind of flick you soon forget.

Like I said, if you've seen The Untouchables - and for that matter, just about any lawmen-take-on-the-mob film - you'll know the score An upstanding war veteran cop John O'Mara (Josh Brolin) is recruited by the chief of police (Nick Nolte) to use methods of badassery outside of the police handbook to put the spanner of the law in Mickey Cohen's (Sean Penn) gangster doings. One by one, we're introduced to the rag-tag bunch of misfits chosen to bash saunter away from explosions, and who mostly never become more than one-dimensional caricatures defined by singular characteristics.

There's the black beat cop (Anthony Mackie), old Wild West quick-draw type (a sorely underused Robert Patrick), his plucky upstart hispanic sidekick (Michael Peña), the brainy intelligence/electronics expert (Giovanni Ribisi), and lastly and most charismatically, Ryan Gosling as womanising slacker-cop Jerry. Of course, Jerry soon becomes involved with Cohen's current squeeze Grace (Emma Stone), although sadly the chemistry of Crazy, Stupid, Love is never quite recreated. In any case, a intelligence-gathering montage there, a shooting practice scene there, a botched first attempt at a hold up there, and BAM - you've got yourself a crack squad of gangster interrupting law enforcement brothers. Now we just sit back and place bets on who's going to die first.

Under-developed relationship, but still very nice to look at.

It's to Gangster Squad's great benefit that the cast assembled is of the calibre that it is. While there's hardly chance for any of the characters (with the exception of Brolin and Gosling) to do any sort of growing or to actually become interesting, the core ensemble and the a handful of supporting players are certainly enjoyable to watch. They even manage to mostly rise above the gangster cliches that abound, as well as the dialogue, which at times seems to have been lifted straight from the Gangster Movie 101 handbook. Of particular note is Mireille Enos as Brolin's pregnant wife, who manages to get a fair amount of warmth from a potentially thankless role.

Gangster Squad walks a constant and very fine line between taking itself seriously, and being utterly and completely ridiculous. Sure, there are a few good one-liners, but when the film attempts to delve into the moral dilemmas of being "outside the law", it stumbles awkwardly. There's a great smattering of bullet-ridden set-pieces, but when at least one of the dramatic moments is so clichéd you literally laugh out loud, it doesn't exactly bode well for the rest of the film.

The two sides of Gangster Squad are somewhat personified by its villain, Mickey Cohen. His gangster accent alternates between "kind of normal" and "truly absurd cartoon villain". He's sinister yes, but without any redeeming features or warmth, he becomes a caricature so over-the-top that it's hard to reconcile even with the more ludicrous elements of the story. "HERE COMES SANTY CLAUS!" he yells, before mowing down Christmas decorations with a machine gun in slow motion. Why is Sean Penn here? Is it to pay for a divorce? Did he just want to ham it up and chew some scenery? You know what though? Once you get used to the ridiculous accent, he's pretty fun to watch as a screeching villainous maniac.

Here's the thing about Gangster Squad. It's incredibly predictable, it's probably instantly forgettable, and it's uneven. However, it's also a lot of fun. It's visually lush, it's surprisingly funny, it's full of blood-spurting, gun-toting violence and the solid cast makes the most of less-than three dimensional characters. It's violent, stylish and entertaining instant gratification, and you'll most likely have a good time watching it. Especially if you're a fan of Ryan Gosling.

2.5/5 (I'm being generous)

Smooth-Talkin'

This post was whipped up at the insistence of a couple of friends. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that my awkwardness knows no bounds, and that apparently said awkwardness is almost a superpower. Such is its awesomeness. 

Here's but a select few true nuggets of smooth talkin' badassery! 

Please, ladies and gents. Form an orderly queue, and try not to get too flustered. 

Boxing Day Can Eat a Bag of Dicks or: I Didn't Enjoy the Boxing Day Sales

Firstly, I'd like to extend my warmest "MERRY CHRISTMAS!" and "HAPPY CHRIMBUS!" and "FESTIVUS FOR THE REST OF US!" to all of you who regularly send your eyes and your clicks over to this ridiculous corner of the internet. It's really heartening to hear how many of you get a genuine kick out of the very silly things that come out of my brain, so thanks for tuning in so often throughout 2012, this year of our anticlimactic apocalypse.

You guys.

My Christmas was a most enjoyable one, as it involved hanging with my family on the coast, watching a shitty Steven Seagal movie, getting a remote controlled helicopter and Neil Young tickets, and then eating so much food I could barely breathe (I'm not even exaggerating). It was a lovely, wholesome, fun-filled and flavorsome way to spend a few days. That being said though, I'd be lying if I said I didn't breathe a sigh of relief when I finally returned to a quiet Castle Mega, made myself a cup of tea, and watched a movie. By myself. Quietly. Silently. By myself. Perhaps observing this enjoyment of one's own company sheds an in-hindsight sort of light on how I handled the True Carnage that occurred the next day. Maybe that's why I was launched into rage and frustration and puzzlement so quickly upon arriving at Chadstone.

The correct reaction upon hearing someone
is going to Chadstone on Boxing Day.

Of course, I was completely aware of what I was getting myself into, so I probably completely deserved all of the pain inflicted on me. In fact, this wasn't the first time I'd braved Chadstone on Boxing Day. You read that correctly. Chadstone on Boxing Day. Last year I braved the carnage clusterfuck, and had a time that was equal parts confounding and rage-inducing. This year my attendance was due to two things:

First of all, my parents gave me a hefty Chadstone voucher along with my Neil Young tickets, claiming that I'm "too damn hard to buy for". Well shit, I wanted to get something good. Having gone to the sales last year, I was very aware of the rubbish-y stock that's left over after the screeching flailing of the first feeding frenzy. I suppose with that I can identify a hefty dose of FEAR OF MISSING OUT having bored its talons into my brain and while that's kind of disappointing, fuck it. I need new shoes.

SECONDLY, and far more stupidly, a morbid curiosity was growing inside me. I knew what I was getting myself into. I knew how angry I'd gotten last year, how I'd stumbled out of the shopping centre with a hatred for my fellow man at an all-time high. I'd seen the snatching and the crowds and the madness and the crazed MUST GET BARGAINS ON SHIT I DON'T NEED, and all I could think of was will it be as bad this year? I wanted to know. I needed to know. And I knew at the very least, I'd get some sort of blog post out of it.

So here you are. Boxing Day 2012. Again, I found a very kind family member to give me a lift to the carnage. And again, I think their generosity was motivated by morbid curiosity than actual goodwill towards their ill-fated daughter but you know, I'll take any free lift that I can get.

Even at 9am, it was packed. Packed. Knowing we'd never get to an actual entrance, I barrel-rolled out of the car and walked the rest of the way. I heard a "GOOD LUCK!" fade into the distance as my ride sped away. I took a deep breath, girded my loins, walked inside, and burst into laughter.

At the "intersection" of Tiffany, Burberry, Gucci and bunch of similarly shiny stores full of reflective surfaces, security guards and confounding prices, the lines snaked around and around and around. People were lining up around corners, past escalators, to go inside. Why? WHY? WHY? 

Of course, this was first thing in the morning. As the day wore on, the crowds grew and became more and more obnoxious, until it was necessary to do the "Music Festival Shuffle" through the crowd to get from SUPER BARGAIN point A to B. But of course, as the day wore on my sense of humour deteriorated and thus, so too did any thought to take photos. See all the space in the photos? The space for walking? GONE.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I stood around and chuckled to myself for a while, and played "SPOT WHITEY" in the Gucci line (there were four), before heading towards Myer. I'm not entirely sure what came over me, considering the true bloodshed and brutality that I faced there me last year, but that's where I went. Maybe it was momentary bravery brought on by having a laugh, maybe it was because I was listening to The Four Tops, or maybe it's because I was super curious. Or maybe I was just overcome by momentary insanity, because I made a bee-line for the "INTIMATE APPAREL" section, a place akin to Mount Doom to me, in that it's fraught with peril and is fucking terrifying.

Yes, the time had come to brave the battlefield of bra-shopping, an activity that I find to be equal parts intimidating, confusing and demoralising. As a result, I always put it off. I sure as shit wasn't going to go to Bras n Things, because I find that to be a Truly Terrifying Place. The sales assistants swoop down upon you, it looks like a Barbie exploded everywhere, and in between all of the confusion and terror I can barely even remember what damn size I am. So I guess that left Myer. Already, there were bras all over the floor, hangars were strewn everywhere, and the line for the fitting room was something awful. It was obnoxiously crowded. Every few seconds I found myself saying "Excuuuuuuuuse me", as I literally squeezed myself between women and racks (HEH HEH) of bras. People were plonking themselves in the most inconvenient possible places, not bothering to get out of the way, shoving past each other. It's kind of as if with the dawn of Boxing Day so to comes an unspoken rule that "YOU CAN BE A DICK TODAY, BECAUSE IT'S BOXING DAY. IT'S A FREE-FOR-ALL, MOTHERFUCKERS".

I'll say this much: the next person who sees me sans shirt had better know the Saving Private Ryan-esque scene that was endured to purchase those boob-holders. I don't mean to say that there was blood and guts and khaki green everywhere, I just mean to say that it was AWFUL and it was KIND OF TRAUMATISING, and certainly after putting my headphones back on and attempting to navigate my way out of Myer (PRO-TIP: Don't go via the Cosmetics Department), I stood outside with a fair dosage of the ol' Thousand Mile Stare. Add the madness of Boxing Day to the already confusing experience that it is, and you've got yourself cause for some shopping PTSD, yo.

Returning to the massacre of Chaddy's "streets" was like attempting to get from one point to another at a music festival. I take that back. I don't get angry at music festivals. It was like walking down Swanston Street, but about ten times worse. I find that walking from one end of Swanston Street to the other is about 90% likely to make my blood boil. Too many people, not enough space, not enough people with destinations in mind. The people that walk way too slow, the groups that walk way too slow while also walking four abreast, the small children shrieking and getting in the way, the people that stop mid-walk in the middle of the path to confer about something, or take a photo, or just generally be in the way. Call me an impatient asshole, but this is what riles me up. And this time, there were trolleys involved.

I went to look at the foodcourt. It was awful. I walked down to JB Hi-Fi. The line snaked around past the bowling alley. I went down to the other foodcourt, and a disbelieving, "Oh, SHIT!" escaped my lips. I shoved my way through the crowd and into a shoe store. It was so crowded, one literally could not move without actually shoving past people. Shoes were strewn everywhere. Boyfriends stood in the corner, looking vaguely scared and clutching an array of brightly coloured bags. I left almost immediately, for fear that I'd launch into a flying rage at any moment. .

My next location was Fat, which mercifully wasn't full of yelling ladies snatching and shoving. I asked a guy working there how his day had been, and his hand immediately went to his face. "Oh god ... it's been insane. Insane. I cannot wait. Until. This is over."

I am so glad I don't work in retail anymore.

It took my ride 45 minutes to get from a carpark entrance to a centre entrance. I jumped into the car and we drove home and watched in disbelief as we whizzed past car after car after car after car banked up along Dandenong Road.

"What the actual fuck?"

The entire time I was shoving and shuffling and stumbling may way around Chadstone (I did a few laps, just to compare crowds and become ever more bemused/angry), I found myself wondering: WHY? For the love of all that is holy, why the hell BOTHER? I know that's hypocritical for me to say, because obviously I went, and obviously I used my voucher to pick up some actual savings on things I needed/wanted, but STILL. I went in the knowledge that it'd be awful, knowing it was a stupid thing to do, knowing I'd hate it, and knowing that a great deal of things wouldn't actually be on sale. I deserved all the internal pain and the barely contained rage that I had to deal with. The truly unpleasant specimens, the obnoxious children, the bitchy women, the sheer volume of duddery and jackassery and assholery.

I went in knowing that, and then spent the entire time being with one thought overwhelming all others: that this Boxing Day shopping frenzy is one of the most stupid, pointless exercises I could possibly imagine. The haggard looking shop girls, the overflowing food courts, the ruthless snatching of stock and the at times mediocre savings and the clothes strewn all over the floor. Everything I saw could only be described as a waste of time and money and effort of the highest degree of unpleasantness.

But you know, I did buy new shoes. So it can't have been all bad.

Onesie Menagerie and a Toothless Grin: Meredith 2012 PART TWO

So many of my Meredith memories are preeetty much like this.

I'm aware of the fact that at this stage, it's been a little while since Meredith. I was actually debating whether or not I'd finish writing this post, seeing as it's so far after the fact, and so far after part one. However, I was at a Christmas dinner a few nights ago and someone asked me what I'd been up to of late. I mentioned I'd gone to Meredith.

"Meredith? I've never heard of it. Is it a festival?" They asked.

I gasped, and flapped my hands around a little bit, and took a deep breath and began to talk very excitedly about the weekend and how much of an amazing scene it was and the myriad ways in which I loved it. So I figured, if I've still got that much energy and excitement when I talk about Meredith 2012, then I might as well jot some of it down on the internet for ... posterity, perhaps? At the very least, I feel like it'd be a shame to write a long-winded post about the Friday night, then to omit all talk of the Truly Amazing Things That Occurred on the Saturday.

Of course, Saturday didn't really start in earnest until afternoon rolled around and the sun began to go down along with the temperature. That can be in part attributed to the insane heat and the sun bearing down on us all like some smartass jerk ("JUST YOU TRY AND AVOID ME!"), and partly because I woke up feeling like pure, undiluted rubbish. This - for those of you playing at home - comes with a word of warning for all kidlets and and for those of you who plan on drinking a beer any time in the future, ever.

Do not, under any circumstances, buy Rivet. It's Aldi beer, with a price tag that equates to $1 per can. With a name that refers to metallic construction tools rather than tasty beverages, I guess one has to expect the worst. Cheap yes, convenient yes, yes it suited my budget. But oh lord, did ever taste like shit. Or rather, it didn't taste like shit. It was devoid of taste. And it then left me with a hangover I in no way deserved. Saturday night was FAR bigger and FAR rowdier and FAR more filled with activities conducive to feeling like rubbish in the morn, but I woke up feeling right as rain (and in a monster suit). Post-Friday night, I felt like some sort of dark goblin of nausea had made a home in my stomach and was hosting some sort of circle pit of doom in there.

As a result, I spent most of Saturday attempting to find shade, attempting to nap, and attempting not to mostly look glum. I paused that bizzo briefly to rock out to Royal Headache with Dane, but that was about the most noteworthy thing that happened before a nap back at the campsite. For the record Royal Headache were flippin' great, even if Ferg did later declare them to be "FUCKING SHIT". Personally, they were exactly the kind of don't-give-a-shit rocking midday wake-up set that I needed.

In any case, the moral of the story is thus: DON'T DRINK ALDI BEER.

I fuck up so you don't have to.

So like I said, we pick up the story in the early hours of Saturday evening, post-nap and post-baby wipe of face and arms to get rid of a few layers of dirt and post-get-into-monster-suit efforts (believe me, it was an effort to get out of that beach chair after that nap).

Neil whipped out a little tube thing of zinc and we set about putting lines on our faces, preparing for for the battle (see: party) ahead. The animal suits again were on and buttoned up with hoods and travelers at the ready. Meanwhile, Ferg had disappeared into his Taj Mahal of a tent. Saturday evening heralded the arrival of "Aunty Ferg", whom I'd heard so much about in giggled snippets, yet remained a tight-lipped secret. In fact, when I tried to peek into the tent to sneak a look-see, Dane suddenly leapt into flight and jumped in front of me. "NO. NOT YET. WAIT."

It was worth the wait, I'll say that much. Aunty Ferg emerged, towering and hairy, all blonde wig and rainbow socks and the most hideous purple dress you could possibly imagine. Rounding out that most excellent (sexcellent) image was Ferg's wasted, chuckling grin complete with missing a front tooth. I'm pretty sure my approval was voiced via an insane shriek of delight. 

With everyone in onesie, dresses, sequins and animal-print, we trouped back over to the amphitheatre. Where Friday night had been a party vibe, the electricity in the air on Saturday made it look like a mid-week catch up for a cup of tea in comparison. With beers in bags, we made our way towards the crowd and the music. Trundling monster-style past the campsites and the groups of costumed, hatted, onesie'd and wasted pals, and hearing the music of Saskwatch growing ever closer, I looked up at the sky and had the first of many moments that night in which I suddenly thought to myself, "HOLY SHIT. THIS IS SO AWESOME. I AM HAVING SUCH A FUCKING GOOD TIME." A grin plastered on my face, I took a swig of beer and felt rather goddamn pleased. Of course, that may have just been my distance from sobriety talking. 

The animal posse joined Aunty Ferg at the sunshine wave of party. I could attempt to describe what the vibe was as Saskwatch played and everybody danced and the sun was beginning to go down, but I honestly wouldn't be doing the scene any justice in the slightest. I scrawled down in my notebook the next day "SASKWATCH. DANCING. MOST GLORIOUS MOMENT, BLOG." if that's any sort of indicator of where I was at and where the evening was at. I do remember telling myself to take a mental picture of the sun going down and the lights going up and the image of everyone dancing. Again however, that may have just been my distance from sobriety talking.

Ferg was garnering some superb reactions as he danced his way around, with a flower behind his ear and red lipstick peeking from within his beard. Generally the reaction of the average punter was one that read "THE FUCK" followed by stunned followed by "OH, COOL!". The three-fold progression was something you'd have to have seen in order to grasp how truly hilarious it was. But believe me, it was amazing.

Speaking of amazing (SEGUE! SEGUE!), the sea of people had to be at least 50% clothed in costume/outrageous outfit/onesie. Combined with the loving, inclusive, incredibly friendly vibe of the amphitheater in general, it felt like any moment not spent dancing was spent being asked "what're you?" and then asking, "DUDE, what are you?". Animals, a convoy of bananas, sequins and colours abounded. Almost everyone was huggable. Further down the hill Dane and I spied a girl in a skin-tight purple jumpsuit. She'd stuck plastic bugs and birds and flowers all over her body. It was the kind of afternoon that, upon seeing in someone in a costume worthy of congratulations, you'd sprint over and congratulate them. So we did. Frog and monster boogied on over, but were stopped before we had a chance to speak by the girl in purple and her two very normal looking male friends doing a sort of crab dance around their esky and bags.

"WOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOP" they wooped, as they scuttled around with their hands as pincers. We did the same. "WOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOP". A few other people joined in, to the delight of the girl.

"YOUR COSTUME IS AMAZING."
"THANK YOU, SO ARE YOURS!"
"I LIKE YOUR BUGS!"
"WOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOPWOOP"

We returned to the posse to be greeted by Neil grinning underneath the bobbing tufts of fur on his guinea pig hood's face. "Double-dropped!" Ferg roared at me, demanding to know where I'd been during Big Jay McNeely. "I don't know, around? Sorry!" "I LOOKED FOR YOU WHY WEREN'T YOU AT BIG JAY MCNEELY." His super-rad lady was brandishing a thing (What're they called anyway? Tubes? Implements? Sticks?) of red lipstick, seizing every face in sight and making a sea of bright red mouths.

Out of nowhere appeared a bearded guy dressed in a biblical looking get-up, holding a long stick in one hand and a can of something in the other. "MY CHILDREN!" He bellowed. "COME ABOARD MY ARK! I CAN PROTECT YOU, CHILDREN!" 

Behind him danced about thirty people in animal onesies. It was a veritable summertime musical ark, being led by some sort of wasted Noah, holding a hand on a stick which was in turn holding a few glowsticks. We danced over. There were owls, a wolf, a whale, a bat, penguins, bears and giraffes and even a raccoon wearing a tie. Business raccoon. Making astute business decisions in between rummaging through bins with his opposable thumbs. My GOD.

"WELCOME ABOARD THE ARK!"

It's at this stage that things become a little blurry, that memories appear to become fragmented and severely out of chronological order. They also literally get blurry, with the vague recollection that at some point I thought the lights of the stage were on a deckchair, and with the Sunday-morning information that I was constantly trying to play-fight Ferg's pal Shamus. Regurgitator were on next, and I believe they were rad. Neil, Dane and I spent a long while scampering after Ferg as he marched/boogied through the crowd, equal parts dancing and yelling indecipherable things at people. To be in the wake of his destruction was equal parts something I'll not soon forget, and also barely remember. A guy in a frog hat was floored by being completely out-frogged by Dane. Neil's cloud of a guinea pig tail was garnering many a squeal. Three guys dressed as bananas. I began scampering off again. Primal Scream were on. It was time to dance again. "Do you think Bobbie Gillespie's wasted?" "I think he's in a perpetual state of wasted."

Like I said, memories disjointed and blurry at this point. We went to the bar. I scampered off, distracted by an attractive male wearing a beanie covered in bears. Back to the bar, suddenly struck by the terrible affliction where one can see lips moving and hear sounds coming out but cannot understand a godforsaken word. "I CAN SEE YOUR MOUTH MOVING BUT I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE SAYING." "Whosprivileged?" "Huh?" "Whosprivileged?" "What?" "Who's privileged?" Oh god. Was this a riddle?
"Who?"
Ferg leaned forward conspiratorially. "All of us."

My brain.

In the vehicle convoy line leading to the gates on Friday morning, I'd attempted to sock Ferg in the stomach. "NO. No fighting. Reb, I will NOT FIGHT YOU THIS WEEKEND" he'd said. That was obviously a fib, because there was a definite stacks on that occurred there on the grass of the Pink Flamingo. That was somewhere in between my visiting the guys on the couch for the umpteenth time (it's as if I was constantly just realising anew that they were there) then wandering down to Turbonegro with them, and again running after Ferg with Dane and Neil watching him roar at people. Literally, roaring at people. Were Turbonegro good? Maybe? Were they before or after Primal Scream? I'm not sure. My camera had run out of juice (film) at this point, so there's no real knowing what went on and in what order and at what point I my scampering morphed into stumbling.

I woke up with the vague sense that I must have been pretty annoying at some point to someone, but that's just because I'm used to that being the case at some point, sometimes. Was it actually the case? We'll never know. I do know that slowly our animal posse dwindled, and Ferg lumbered off into the night in a disgusting ruffled shirt, and before too long Dane, Neil and I were sitting on the grass attempting not to fall asleep. Conversation stumbled along, meandering in no real direction. We'd missed the "Onesie Party" that was due to occur at the "Big Tree" at "about like, 11:30ish". As the sun had gone down and the crowd hurtled ever further from anything resembling sober, the party time zone vibe so too had morphed, as had the musical stylings on-stage. We dozed on the grass, and I let forth with the occasional nugget of non-sensical word-vomit that resulted in instant embarrassment when it left my mouth.

I wandered off again, I lost my beanie, the guys went to bed, I wandered around a bit more, then I collapsed into my tent, with the dull disappointment in myself for tapping out so early (3am?) being overshadowed by the relief that comes with lying down and going beginning the process of passing out.

Sunday morning - without any Rivet within me - was cold and windy and felt pretty victorious. Victorious, and hungry, and in need of sleep. The campsite again looked like it was feeling the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse action comedy shoot-out. People all around wandered around toward the toilet-block, some coupling the tracksuit-pant look with the last-night's-costume look, to superb effect. Upon pausing to reflect on the superb sights one sees in the morning - Mystery men crawling out of tents! Knowing smirks! Some dude passed out under a car! Friends buying their weight in sausages and coffee while wearing a sleeping bag! - it's at this point that we can hit the fast-forward button. Fast forward through the clean-up, slowing down to enjoy the communal morning debrief of the previous night's antics. Ferris wheel make-out sessions! Cougar exploits! Getting too wasted to remember to hit on anyone! Dancing so vigorously you end up with cuts on your arms! Mixed-up confusion and wasn't the music so damn good!

Then we can hit fast-forward again, through the pack-up and the dismantling of feats of tarp engineering and K-Mart bought tents, and slow down briefly to observe the Meredith Gift. So dusty! So naked! SO many jiggling and jangling bits! Then of course, we can fast-forward to the car ride home, and the long journey back to the real world.

I compared notes with a pal who'd also been in attendance at the Supernatural Amphitheater on how we felt upon returning. Dazed? Lost? Confused? Really, really dirty and pretty sunburnt? All of the above? And that's why at Christmas when my uncle asked me how "that music festival was" my answer was riddled with wild gesticulations and a non-indoor voice. I can honestly say I haven't had a weekend like that in a long, long time. I haven't laughed like that, with such rad pals, to the point of not being able to breathe in ages.

On Sunday evening Mike had some friends from NZ over, and we all went out for dinner and a drink. I pottered around in a daze, a shell of my former self, barely able to communicate.

"Sorry guys, you've caught me when I'm not at my peak." I tried to explain. "I won't soon forget this weekend. But if I don't get some sleep soon, I think I'm going to die."