It's late. Or early. The difference is philosophical, probably. The evening began many hours before at Scott's house. So many of these nights started out in that place. We've been drinking. Maybe it was the night we watched Sooty and Fraggle Rock, whilst drinking wine and eating crackers with cheese. Or maybe it was the time somebody set fire to a wooden chipmunk on the front lawn. Actually no, it wasn't that night. That night was a big party. House was full of people.
I'm sitting in a car. The car is full of drunks. The driver is not drunk. I do not remember who the driver was. They are no longer a person merely a function, within the pocket of this memory. They have no face, just the back of their head and the ability to drive. The chipmunk on the lawn wasn't tonight. The car is full of people, but not that many people. Most of us had been drinking. I'd been drinking. Maybe it was the night Scott got me to try Killkenny. There's a photo out there somewhere of me wearing Mickey Mouse ears and posing with the can. I look absurd. Absurd and fat. But then I usually do. Before then I was absurd and gangly. Before that I was just a little shit. But that was then and this is now. Now is a car on the side of the road. We've stopped next to a field. I think I know where this place is. I have a vague sense of the direction we've been driving. I grew up around here, or close enough. I never wandered down this way all that much, but I knew about it. A field. We've arrived. We're meant to be here.
I'm having a conversation with Scott. I'm braying and neighing like a horse now and then because that's the kind of thing I tend to do. My horse neigh is loud and convincing. It's also fun. I'm talking to Scott but facing the car window. The field stretches out before me, the edges lit by the streetlamp but the rest fading into darkness. Lemons. We're here for lemons. Somebody wanted lemons for a drink. Or a recipe. Why do we always seem to cook when drunk? Actually it's Scott who usually cooks when drunk. He does it with the determination and obsessiveness of an OCD patient. It's in stark contrast to his wild character. As though he bottles all his little worries and uptight tendencies into this one avenue. But no, the reason for the lemons evades me. Only that the field was supposed to have them and we had arrived. I'm talking to Scott and turn to face him in mid sentence. Somebody else is sitting next to me. They look at me, slightly confused.
I scream like a little girl and wonder why Scott had transformed into this other person.
The car door opens. Scott is standing outside the car and has opened it for me.
"I WANT TO RUN FREE LIKE THE WIND," I cry out. I try to leap out of the car but sort of tumble onto the pavement instead. I think I'd been crying out for my freedom for the last ten minutes. Scott has a huge grin on his face.
"Here you go. Run and be free." He seems to take great joy and pride in this statement as he sweeps his arm towards the field. I get off the ground, nearly falling over twice in the process and begin to gallop.
Not run. Gallop. Like a horse. I am a drunk horse on a quest for lemons and freedom. I gallop up and down the field, neighing and braying and making such noise. The others scatter. There's a tree somewhere. Lemons are collected, as I gallop. After a while I decide that galloping has tired me out and so I lie down. I decide to be efficient about this and let myself just collapse. I seem to do that when drinking a lot. Let my legs give way and come tumbling down like some kind of rag doll.
There is no information on the rest of the night. Except for pulling over a few blocks away from Scott's house on the way home. I tumble out of the car and onto somebody's front garden and throw up. I hate it. It's best to let the vomit flow and eject the badness. But I fight it every time. My body gags and tries to puke but I always pull it back as much as I can. Soon I was back in the car, glad not to have vomited in the car but also feeling sorry for doing it in that persons garden.
Song: "Walking Far From Home," By Iron and Wine.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
Attacked At Work!
I work at a fast food place. Or at least I will for the next five weeks before I move interstate. But that's a blog for another time, probably soon. Anyway, I'm a manager at a fast food place and I work nights. I work five graveyard shifts per week and have been doing it for three years now. But something happened tonight which I wanted to recount because, frankly, it's insane and this sort of thing tends to happen all too often.
So the place I work at is open 24/7. Or rather the Drive Thru is. The dining room closes at 11pm and reopens at 6am. This is going to change soon, I hear and I am glad to be getting the hell out of the business before I have to endure THAT. Having dining room closed means more security, better to handle a bad situation and so forth.
I'm leaving soon. Two of the crew working tonight have been there for years and are going to be taking over my position when I leave. A good promotion and they can handle most things. Some nights we get drunks trying to walk through the drive thru lane. The store is closed and one of the reasons is it's more secure to deal with someone from their car window than standing directly in front of you. If we were going to serve people on foot then the store would be open. But people still try to walk through. Of course I can't serve you. Honestly, just use your head for a second. I work for a major fast food company. Everything we do is recorded on a shit ton of cameras throughout the store. We get audited regularly for our practises. Yes, just serving you on foot just that one time could get us seriously fined. And besides, it's dangerous. You're drunk. People are driving around drunk. People speed. No part of this recipe is good.
Something that really bugs me is the selfish indignant attitude that my current industry attracts. Maybe it's because we plaster the message out there in such a massive way of doing things the way they want to and being open or available all the time that people fly into a rage when it's denied to them. Or simply can't understand why we can't "Just do it for me." Would it be fair to serve one walker and not all of them? No. Of course not. If I serve one then I should be serving all of them. As I say we're on camera. You're in a dangerous position. You're putting my security at risk, too. No I am not going to do it "Just for you." You are not special. You do not deserve special treatment above anybody else. I don't know who the hell you are and frankly I couldn't care less.
So I had a few of my guys working tonight, two of which are being promoted to night manager. Somebody walked down the lane and tried to be served. I was in the office doing some admin when I saw this going on the cameras. My guy could handle it. He'd tell them no and leave it at that and get me if he had to. I did my work but kept an eye on the screen as I saw the guy come back two times Then he vanished. But not for long it would seem.
Suddenly I heard a loud banging sound coming from the dining room. I knew what it meant right away and picked up the phone. See, we have a patio area protected by a fence. The patio leads to two sets of glass sliding doors which lead into the dining room. Two flimsy sliding doors and a gate which is easily climbed over are all the security I'm given every night. I go to work every day knowing that if somebody really wants to get into my store then they are going to. Knowing this I picked up the phone and called 000. (Which is the Australian version of 911.)
I walked to front counter to find a slim hooligan going off his nut. He'd grabbed a metal frame which holds out dustpans and started beating the shit out of front counter. Some of my training kicked in, looking for his height and whatnot. He was about average height. Shaven head. Northern England accent and drunk off his face. And just going off for no god damn reason. He started wailing on front counter, smashing against the registers and pounding on the charity boxes and other items. I stepped in front of my crew person, who is a short fellow and was quite understandably worked up. I placed my hand on his chest and got him to stand back. I walked up to the man, as close as I could as he was swinging the metal pole around.
The funny thing is that I've seen this whole routine before. It saddens me to say that this is nothing new. It also saddens me to say that, in my area of Perth, the people who cause this kind of trouble the most often are english immigrants. Soccer hooligan types. I get all kinds of people coming through at night. A lot of immigrants work the crappy late shift so they stop by. I can't speak for other parts of Perth and I know where I live there are a lot of English people living. But honest to God, it's these English hooligans that have given me the most trouble over the years.
But not always, mind you. Sometimes Australians do it too. It usually works out something like this: Guy tries to walk through. We tell them no. They completely fail to comprehend the idea. We tell them no, usually several more times. Once they understand they absolutely lose the plot.
One has to wonder what kind of person lives like this? Who goes off the rails over something as simple as not being able to buy a god damn hamburger? The whole thing seems absolutely insane to me. I often picture what these people are like in their day to day lives. if they blow up and lose the plot over such a mundane thing then how else are they reacting to other problems? Worse still, what is going to happen when they encounter something truly terrible or shocking? If violence comes so easily with such little provocation then I shudder to think what'll happen when things really kick off someday.
So I'm standing as close as I can as this guy waves his metal pole around and does his temper tantrum. It's funny that these English guys tend to lose the plot much faster with my Indian employees than with me. They still lose their temper at me, but these people are clearly racist. My boys are not bad communicators and they're certainly not rude. As I stood on counter with the phone to my ear, calling 000, I could tell that this was a drunken, racist, English immigrant doing his nut.
I've seen it all before. I'll probably see it again in the five weeks I have left. The wired thing is that I wasn't really scared, other than flinching a little at the pieces of register that were flying around as he smashed. I got through to the police, and looked at this man with a calm and slightly bored expression.
'I'm calling the police,' I said calmly but assertively.
'Good! Call the fucking police! See if I care!' the drunken lout muttered in his thick northern accent.
'I'll remind you mate, that you're on camera right now,' I said, gesturing around the ceiling with my finger. 'I think you should leave.'
He muttered something and stopped thrashing around as I got through to the police helpline. I placed the phone call, directly in front of this guy, looking him in the eye as I did so. The steam seemed to have gone out of him.
'Just go,' I said pointing over to the sliding door. He turned around, ready to go. But the doors were shut and locked. This seemed to confuse him and he flared up in anger, spinning around on the spot for a moment. He wanted to leave. I could tell. I pointed at the other door.
'Just go to that door and press the white button, mate. It'll let you out.'
He wandered over and looked confused, but still aggro.
'What fucking button?'
'Just there.'
He left. He went out, jumped the fence and started to run. Obviously he didn't want to be caught by the police.
The damage done to the register and the EFTPOS pin pad.
Once I was sure he had gone and I had finished placing my emergency phone call I turned to my crew person and started to laugh. What else can you do? The whole thing is just ridiculous. The only sane response to something like this is to see the humour in it. I chuckled.
The cops got there about twenty minutes later. I felt like ringing the emergency line back and telling them not to bother because I was dead already. I didn't. The police came and took statements and photo's. They left soon after. The whole thing has been recorded on camera of course. My boss has access to the digital footage and will pass it on to them soon enough.
But the annoying thing was that the bastard had smashed the controlling register on front counter. This register controls all the main screens on front counter and the kitchen. It also affects the network on the drive thru screens. Basically, it crippled us. We couldn't see the orders were were taking. Plus we could only take one at a time, instead of several, slowing everything down. So I rang the helpdesk and spent an hour on the phone with them while we set up another register as the controller. Finally I managed to get the store running smoothly again. I thought about closing right after the incident, but honestly I felt like it wasn't worth it. I felt as though I'd handled him and we could just move on with our night.
This kind of rage happens a lot, though. I've been at this same store for seven years now and I've seen it countless times. Mostly I find the whole thing amusing. Once I would have otter worked up at the man too and yelled or screamed at him. These days I just don't react. I've seen it all before. Nothing new. Do your bit and just fuck off. I'm not afraid you.
I have 26 shifts left at that job. I hope to god that I can change careers and get some kind of office job where I don't get covered in grease every night or abused by drunks and freaks. Sure every job has it's issues, but I really need a change of pace. The threat of violence has stopped worrying me or stressing me out. It bores me now. I think that's a sure sign that I need to find something better.
Song: "Not Dark Yet," by Bob Dylan.
So the place I work at is open 24/7. Or rather the Drive Thru is. The dining room closes at 11pm and reopens at 6am. This is going to change soon, I hear and I am glad to be getting the hell out of the business before I have to endure THAT. Having dining room closed means more security, better to handle a bad situation and so forth.
I'm leaving soon. Two of the crew working tonight have been there for years and are going to be taking over my position when I leave. A good promotion and they can handle most things. Some nights we get drunks trying to walk through the drive thru lane. The store is closed and one of the reasons is it's more secure to deal with someone from their car window than standing directly in front of you. If we were going to serve people on foot then the store would be open. But people still try to walk through. Of course I can't serve you. Honestly, just use your head for a second. I work for a major fast food company. Everything we do is recorded on a shit ton of cameras throughout the store. We get audited regularly for our practises. Yes, just serving you on foot just that one time could get us seriously fined. And besides, it's dangerous. You're drunk. People are driving around drunk. People speed. No part of this recipe is good.
Something that really bugs me is the selfish indignant attitude that my current industry attracts. Maybe it's because we plaster the message out there in such a massive way of doing things the way they want to and being open or available all the time that people fly into a rage when it's denied to them. Or simply can't understand why we can't "Just do it for me." Would it be fair to serve one walker and not all of them? No. Of course not. If I serve one then I should be serving all of them. As I say we're on camera. You're in a dangerous position. You're putting my security at risk, too. No I am not going to do it "Just for you." You are not special. You do not deserve special treatment above anybody else. I don't know who the hell you are and frankly I couldn't care less.
So I had a few of my guys working tonight, two of which are being promoted to night manager. Somebody walked down the lane and tried to be served. I was in the office doing some admin when I saw this going on the cameras. My guy could handle it. He'd tell them no and leave it at that and get me if he had to. I did my work but kept an eye on the screen as I saw the guy come back two times Then he vanished. But not for long it would seem.
Suddenly I heard a loud banging sound coming from the dining room. I knew what it meant right away and picked up the phone. See, we have a patio area protected by a fence. The patio leads to two sets of glass sliding doors which lead into the dining room. Two flimsy sliding doors and a gate which is easily climbed over are all the security I'm given every night. I go to work every day knowing that if somebody really wants to get into my store then they are going to. Knowing this I picked up the phone and called 000. (Which is the Australian version of 911.)
I walked to front counter to find a slim hooligan going off his nut. He'd grabbed a metal frame which holds out dustpans and started beating the shit out of front counter. Some of my training kicked in, looking for his height and whatnot. He was about average height. Shaven head. Northern England accent and drunk off his face. And just going off for no god damn reason. He started wailing on front counter, smashing against the registers and pounding on the charity boxes and other items. I stepped in front of my crew person, who is a short fellow and was quite understandably worked up. I placed my hand on his chest and got him to stand back. I walked up to the man, as close as I could as he was swinging the metal pole around.
The funny thing is that I've seen this whole routine before. It saddens me to say that this is nothing new. It also saddens me to say that, in my area of Perth, the people who cause this kind of trouble the most often are english immigrants. Soccer hooligan types. I get all kinds of people coming through at night. A lot of immigrants work the crappy late shift so they stop by. I can't speak for other parts of Perth and I know where I live there are a lot of English people living. But honest to God, it's these English hooligans that have given me the most trouble over the years.
But not always, mind you. Sometimes Australians do it too. It usually works out something like this: Guy tries to walk through. We tell them no. They completely fail to comprehend the idea. We tell them no, usually several more times. Once they understand they absolutely lose the plot.
One has to wonder what kind of person lives like this? Who goes off the rails over something as simple as not being able to buy a god damn hamburger? The whole thing seems absolutely insane to me. I often picture what these people are like in their day to day lives. if they blow up and lose the plot over such a mundane thing then how else are they reacting to other problems? Worse still, what is going to happen when they encounter something truly terrible or shocking? If violence comes so easily with such little provocation then I shudder to think what'll happen when things really kick off someday.
So I'm standing as close as I can as this guy waves his metal pole around and does his temper tantrum. It's funny that these English guys tend to lose the plot much faster with my Indian employees than with me. They still lose their temper at me, but these people are clearly racist. My boys are not bad communicators and they're certainly not rude. As I stood on counter with the phone to my ear, calling 000, I could tell that this was a drunken, racist, English immigrant doing his nut.
I've seen it all before. I'll probably see it again in the five weeks I have left. The wired thing is that I wasn't really scared, other than flinching a little at the pieces of register that were flying around as he smashed. I got through to the police, and looked at this man with a calm and slightly bored expression.
'I'm calling the police,' I said calmly but assertively.
'Good! Call the fucking police! See if I care!' the drunken lout muttered in his thick northern accent.
'I'll remind you mate, that you're on camera right now,' I said, gesturing around the ceiling with my finger. 'I think you should leave.'
He muttered something and stopped thrashing around as I got through to the police helpline. I placed the phone call, directly in front of this guy, looking him in the eye as I did so. The steam seemed to have gone out of him.
'Just go,' I said pointing over to the sliding door. He turned around, ready to go. But the doors were shut and locked. This seemed to confuse him and he flared up in anger, spinning around on the spot for a moment. He wanted to leave. I could tell. I pointed at the other door.
'Just go to that door and press the white button, mate. It'll let you out.'
He wandered over and looked confused, but still aggro.
'What fucking button?'
'Just there.'
He left. He went out, jumped the fence and started to run. Obviously he didn't want to be caught by the police.
The damage done to the register and the EFTPOS pin pad.
Once I was sure he had gone and I had finished placing my emergency phone call I turned to my crew person and started to laugh. What else can you do? The whole thing is just ridiculous. The only sane response to something like this is to see the humour in it. I chuckled.
The cops got there about twenty minutes later. I felt like ringing the emergency line back and telling them not to bother because I was dead already. I didn't. The police came and took statements and photo's. They left soon after. The whole thing has been recorded on camera of course. My boss has access to the digital footage and will pass it on to them soon enough.
But the annoying thing was that the bastard had smashed the controlling register on front counter. This register controls all the main screens on front counter and the kitchen. It also affects the network on the drive thru screens. Basically, it crippled us. We couldn't see the orders were were taking. Plus we could only take one at a time, instead of several, slowing everything down. So I rang the helpdesk and spent an hour on the phone with them while we set up another register as the controller. Finally I managed to get the store running smoothly again. I thought about closing right after the incident, but honestly I felt like it wasn't worth it. I felt as though I'd handled him and we could just move on with our night.
This kind of rage happens a lot, though. I've been at this same store for seven years now and I've seen it countless times. Mostly I find the whole thing amusing. Once I would have otter worked up at the man too and yelled or screamed at him. These days I just don't react. I've seen it all before. Nothing new. Do your bit and just fuck off. I'm not afraid you.
I have 26 shifts left at that job. I hope to god that I can change careers and get some kind of office job where I don't get covered in grease every night or abused by drunks and freaks. Sure every job has it's issues, but I really need a change of pace. The threat of violence has stopped worrying me or stressing me out. It bores me now. I think that's a sure sign that I need to find something better.
Song: "Not Dark Yet," by Bob Dylan.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
How I Survived High school
I can't remember a single day in Primary School where I wasn't bullied or tormented in some way. I think the only thing that stopped me from going completely insane was around year six our year group gained some new students. They were two American twins who had just moved to Perth. One was a boy and one was a girl. The boy was… not quite all there. He was from South Carolina and made the mistake of bringing that special blend of American ignorance and patriotism over to his new country. He hated Australia, he hated us and he the bullying that poor fellow endured was ten times worse than anything I ever got because he was extremely aggressive. He'd try to defend himself violently and loudly.
Actually, I just remembered that his twin sister probably liked me too. It was an awkward age and I remember she kept touching me. Ha! But anyway, I only mention that in reference to my last blog post. The point is that if it wasn't for these guys rocking up, I'd have probably gone insane.
I've mentioned some of these things before but I'll briefly recap. Firstly I wet the bed until I was eleven, turning twelve. That's right. I wet the bed until my final year of Primary School. Even worse than that was that everybody knew about it from the day I arrived at that school in year two and the reputation carried with me forever. Couple that with my extreme inability to do any kind of sports, my pale skin which only became worse as I did less and less outdoor activities and my amazing stupidity (especially social stupidity) and you've got yourself a perfect storm for misery.
So Primary School was hell. But High School was something else entirely. I'm not quite sure what happened that changed things for me in High School. I have a few theories, but the truth is that life actually became a whole lot more bearable. To my dismay I went to Greenwood along with the rest of my class. I wanted to change schools and have a fresh start, No such luck for me. I was going to the same place as everyone who knew me and I was going to carry my reputation. But the funny thing is that there seems to be something of an unwritten rule when entering year eight, the first year of high school. Or at least there was where I was. It seemed to me that everybody had a past they were trying to shake. Everybody wanted to reestablish themselves as somebody new like some kind of do over. This wasn't strictly true, there were those who knew who I was and resented me still. But even they didn't seem to bring up the bed wetting or other things from the past. It was weird.
But I was still a pale nerd with no sporting ability and certainly no academic ability. The academic thing used to bug me and in a way it kind of still does. I am probably the most uncoordinated person you will ever meet. I just am. I've never been able to excel at any kind of physical activity, ever, in my entire life. (Actually in year Eight I was awesome at the high Jump but that was because I was one of the tallest kids in the year group.) So it always used to annoy me that I wasn't a genius. Or even remotely good at.. anything. It seemed like an unfair transaction. You're bad at sports or making friends? No big deal, you're good at other things. You'll be smart and intelligent and go on to do great things. Imagine being hideous and reading "The Ugly Duckling." Imagine waiting to transform into the beautiful swan, but it never happens? That's what it felt like. What it kinda still feels like. I've been gipped!
But High School was infinitely more bearable for me. Some things happened over the space of a few years in order to make this happen. The first thing was that between the end of Primary School and the start of High School I grew up. Way up. The growing pains I used to endure at this time were immense. I remember writhing around on the floor in agony for hours because my legs were throbbing from the pain. There were two, possibly three boys taller than me in year eight. I think it was just two, actually. So yeah, I was tall. I may have been a dweeb but you should never underestimate how intimidating size can be for some people. I feel like this prevented me from being beaten up some of the time.
The second thing was that I inadvertently made a friend called Doug. Doug was a nerd. He was the kind of genius nerd that I was annoyed I hadn't become. He'd been bullied in Primary School too, except he'd managed to do what I never could. He changed schools and took an analytical approach to becoming popular. And by gum it worked. He created this facade, this fake image and worked very hard to persuade people that this was who he was. But deep down he was a nerd and we became best friends. He liked spending time with me. It was downtime for him. He didn't have to keep up the act. He could just relax, talk to me about Doctor Who or whatever else. I really do think that having a friend as popular as him helped me out. If a rumour went out about me, he'd stamp on it fiercely. He always spoke well of me to other people and remained defiant on this. I earned some respect from him thanks to this. And by that time I had more or less receded into myself anyway, so to most people I was just a gangly, shy and very oily teenager with a serious acne problem who more or less tried to keep to himself.
Keep to himself. Ah yes. If that;s how I'd sum up most of my High School experience, that would be it. See I never wanted to be popular. I soon realised that I wasn't going to go on to great things or become the genius I was hoping to be. From the first day of year eight I had been placed into the remedial maths class next to the drug dealers and vandals. I remember being terrified that somebody would try to talk to me. It didn't matter if it was the teacher or another student. I loathed group exercises. An intense fear burned inside me whenever we were forced to buddy up with somebody for work. I felt sorry for whoever had to end up with me. I just wanted to be left alone. I'd sit in the classroom and draw on my file. I can't really draw but it's something I do when I'm thinking. I used to draw Daleks, Police Boxes, Cyber-men and these weird sad faces. Over time they grew to absorb my entire file and ended up looking like some kind of twisted H.R. Giger Wall Sculpture. But the point is that I just wanted to be left alone.
I used to run home from school. Ok, not true. I didn't run. First of all that would look absurd and secondly I wasn't fit. But I did the next best thing. I'd power walk. To this day it's something I do. I hate waiting around. I walk quickly. I walk very quickly. And when I want to try to walk very quickly, I'm almost jogging. I used to hate the classes at the end of the day which were held on the far side of the school because even if I got out on time, I'd race along and be caught in the middle of the other students. They all seemed to zombie walk across the oval, and through the streets. Getting past them was always tricky. Some of them would try to talk to you; usually to annoy or bully you. Others would genuinely try to talk to you and slow you down. But that was rare. The walk from my school to my house would take a normal person around my height about thirty minutes. I got it down to 14. I swear I reached 12 one day but I can't recall.
You have to understand that School was nothing but a torment and seemed to be a waste of my time. I absolutely loathed the idea of homework. When that school bell rang it meant that I finally had time to myself. And those hours were so precious and few. I'd race home, have something to eat and relax for a little bit. Then that time was mine. I'd often spend it working on a script or putting together a Radio Play. Or maybe designing a website or chatting to my friends online. Actually from 13 to 14 years old I used to MUD pretty hard. Before World of Warcraft there was MUD. Text based online gaming. But half the fun of doing that was getting to talk to people from Oxford University, where the MUD had been created. It was then my dream of moving to England began to take shape. But that's a story for another time. I'd try to keep to myself and with the aid of Doug speaking well of me, it meant that people mostly started to leave me alone. I say mostly because of course I still got tormented by certain people. It just happens. But I remember what one guy said when he was bullying some guy as I walked past. He saw me and was about to start on me. But then he paused and said,
'Oh.. Not you. You're too nice.'
The third thing happened much later. In Year Ten I started getting involved in Drama pretty heavily. It was mostly thanks to the school play. I'd been cast in one of the lead roles. But my ability to perform is a curious thing. You'd think it's the complete opposite of everything I just wrote above, about being left alone. Allow me to explain.
Even when I was in Primary School, I remember being able to make people laugh. I used to do sound effects. There were a couple of guys who used to tolerate me and they did so mostly to use me as something of a human jukebox. I dunno, I'm weird. I used to play with my toys a lot (that was how I wrote stories for years) and I used to act out theme songs, incidental music, sound effects and camera angles. (I'd lie on the floor in awkward places and whatnot for the camera angles.) I also remember being buddied up with some kids who were younger than me in Primary School on some school carnival and somehow managing to make them laugh. This one kid dubbed me "Jimeon." Because I kind of looked like him at the time and I was funny. Jimeon is an Irish comedian who had a popular TV series in Australia in the mid nineties. Whenever this kid used to see me around school after that he'd cry out,
'Hey look! It's Jimeon!'
I think I have a talent for performing. In high school I made the critical error of mistaking this for acting. I'm not much of an actor. But I can perform and I can certainly make people laugh. I don't care if that sounds arrogant, its true. In fact it's so true that I find people laugh at me without me even trying. I think I have a comical face. It's more expressive than I think it is. But couple this with the fact that, for nearly every day of my life that I could remember, I had been degraded. Honestly, if you've not experienced that I just want you to try and imagine it. Ok, so it wasn't in a violent way. I could have had it much worse. But imagine not being beaten up or massively psychologically abused, but simply picked on, pretty much every day of your life? Or at least that you could remember? I don't know if you guys have read my other blog posts.. but this is me we're talking about here. I'm the hideous, disgusting guy that wet the bed until he was 11. I'm the guy who girls couldn't stand to touch. I'm the guy who felt sorry for anyone who had to deal with me in any way, shape or form. My whole life was an embarrassment.
One day, when I got up on stage I suddenly realised that I simply had nothing to lose. I couldn't be humiliated. I was already humiliated. How can a nothing like me possibly fall any lower? There was no fear. And the thing about performing is that you're in control. When you get up on that stage there's a very good chance you're making a fool of yourself. But you have complete control over the process. It's up to you to make people laugh or smile. It's up to you to make people pay attention. How could I terrified of that? If you stopped me in the street and tried to talk to me I'd be terrified. I'd have no control whatsoever. I wouldn't know what to say, what to do, nothing. But put me on stage and I'd come to life. I think I still would. I could hop on a stage in front of millions and talk quite comfortably.
The funny thing about all this is that people respond to that. The public speakers we can't stand are the ones who speak in monotones or are so nervous and obviously physically distraught that it actually unsettles us. It's difficult for an audience to endure. But as a performer, if you're comfortable and don't give a shit then the audience can relax and enjoy themselves. I also have a self depreciating sense of humour which has helped me tremendously. I'll happily make fun of my shortcomings to get a laugh. Why the hell not? Even now I make more bald jokes than anyone else. And by embracing these things and joking about them you begin to own them.
I was one of the leads in the school musical in year ten and I'm not being arrogant when I say that I think I was the favourite character. Me and my co-star got the biggest applause on every night. But by then I was already passionate about comedy. I was obsessed with Dr.Who and this had led to an unhealthy pursuit of all English comedy. I lived for UK-TV. I'd absorb everything I could get my hands on. I loved it. I loved the language and the lyrical quality many of them took. I loved the absurdness and the way the characters embrace self depreciation. It was silly and yet somehow dignified. Teenagers were out smoking weed, listening to music, having sex and doing god knows what else. But me? I was writing Dr.Who redisplays. British comedy styled redisplays and soaking up as much British comedy as I humanly possible.
So I became witty. Or maybe I was always witty and it was hiding. Well, OK, I'm not that witty. But I have been described as such in the past and I think it's mostly true. People started to see me performing in High School. This was the biggest dose of credibility I could ever ask for. Seriously if you can make people laugh then they will forgive you for anything. My last few years in High School were definitely the drama days. I was still a lanky, pimply weirdo with hair that looked like a mixture between Albert Einstein and Inspector Gadget, but it meant that people mostly left me alone, but with respect. Actually some would try to engage with me or talk to me. But I'd do what I always do and end the conversation as quickly as possible (for their sake. Speak to me? Ugh!) Except for the friends I'd started to make.
So yeah. I've never really had a problem with public speakers or performing. I cringe when somebody gets up which is clearly terrified and mutters the words. I can understand if they're scared actually. They can't help that although it's still painful for the audience, which probably makes the experience so much worse for them. But I despise passionless monotones. People who get up there and just try to bore you to death. It occurs to me that some of you might be wondering how to go about giving a good speech or talking in public. Here's my advice.
If you're not directly reading a passage then don't give a "speech." Just talk to the audience. Engage them. Talk to them as if they're your friends in your living room. Ask them questions. Make jokes. Be absurd. Be passionate. Don't make it a speech unless it HAS to be, make it a casual chat. People will love you for it.
Song:
Actually, I just remembered that his twin sister probably liked me too. It was an awkward age and I remember she kept touching me. Ha! But anyway, I only mention that in reference to my last blog post. The point is that if it wasn't for these guys rocking up, I'd have probably gone insane.
I've mentioned some of these things before but I'll briefly recap. Firstly I wet the bed until I was eleven, turning twelve. That's right. I wet the bed until my final year of Primary School. Even worse than that was that everybody knew about it from the day I arrived at that school in year two and the reputation carried with me forever. Couple that with my extreme inability to do any kind of sports, my pale skin which only became worse as I did less and less outdoor activities and my amazing stupidity (especially social stupidity) and you've got yourself a perfect storm for misery.
So Primary School was hell. But High School was something else entirely. I'm not quite sure what happened that changed things for me in High School. I have a few theories, but the truth is that life actually became a whole lot more bearable. To my dismay I went to Greenwood along with the rest of my class. I wanted to change schools and have a fresh start, No such luck for me. I was going to the same place as everyone who knew me and I was going to carry my reputation. But the funny thing is that there seems to be something of an unwritten rule when entering year eight, the first year of high school. Or at least there was where I was. It seemed to me that everybody had a past they were trying to shake. Everybody wanted to reestablish themselves as somebody new like some kind of do over. This wasn't strictly true, there were those who knew who I was and resented me still. But even they didn't seem to bring up the bed wetting or other things from the past. It was weird.
But I was still a pale nerd with no sporting ability and certainly no academic ability. The academic thing used to bug me and in a way it kind of still does. I am probably the most uncoordinated person you will ever meet. I just am. I've never been able to excel at any kind of physical activity, ever, in my entire life. (Actually in year Eight I was awesome at the high Jump but that was because I was one of the tallest kids in the year group.) So it always used to annoy me that I wasn't a genius. Or even remotely good at.. anything. It seemed like an unfair transaction. You're bad at sports or making friends? No big deal, you're good at other things. You'll be smart and intelligent and go on to do great things. Imagine being hideous and reading "The Ugly Duckling." Imagine waiting to transform into the beautiful swan, but it never happens? That's what it felt like. What it kinda still feels like. I've been gipped!
But High School was infinitely more bearable for me. Some things happened over the space of a few years in order to make this happen. The first thing was that between the end of Primary School and the start of High School I grew up. Way up. The growing pains I used to endure at this time were immense. I remember writhing around on the floor in agony for hours because my legs were throbbing from the pain. There were two, possibly three boys taller than me in year eight. I think it was just two, actually. So yeah, I was tall. I may have been a dweeb but you should never underestimate how intimidating size can be for some people. I feel like this prevented me from being beaten up some of the time.
The second thing was that I inadvertently made a friend called Doug. Doug was a nerd. He was the kind of genius nerd that I was annoyed I hadn't become. He'd been bullied in Primary School too, except he'd managed to do what I never could. He changed schools and took an analytical approach to becoming popular. And by gum it worked. He created this facade, this fake image and worked very hard to persuade people that this was who he was. But deep down he was a nerd and we became best friends. He liked spending time with me. It was downtime for him. He didn't have to keep up the act. He could just relax, talk to me about Doctor Who or whatever else. I really do think that having a friend as popular as him helped me out. If a rumour went out about me, he'd stamp on it fiercely. He always spoke well of me to other people and remained defiant on this. I earned some respect from him thanks to this. And by that time I had more or less receded into myself anyway, so to most people I was just a gangly, shy and very oily teenager with a serious acne problem who more or less tried to keep to himself.
Keep to himself. Ah yes. If that;s how I'd sum up most of my High School experience, that would be it. See I never wanted to be popular. I soon realised that I wasn't going to go on to great things or become the genius I was hoping to be. From the first day of year eight I had been placed into the remedial maths class next to the drug dealers and vandals. I remember being terrified that somebody would try to talk to me. It didn't matter if it was the teacher or another student. I loathed group exercises. An intense fear burned inside me whenever we were forced to buddy up with somebody for work. I felt sorry for whoever had to end up with me. I just wanted to be left alone. I'd sit in the classroom and draw on my file. I can't really draw but it's something I do when I'm thinking. I used to draw Daleks, Police Boxes, Cyber-men and these weird sad faces. Over time they grew to absorb my entire file and ended up looking like some kind of twisted H.R. Giger Wall Sculpture. But the point is that I just wanted to be left alone.
I used to run home from school. Ok, not true. I didn't run. First of all that would look absurd and secondly I wasn't fit. But I did the next best thing. I'd power walk. To this day it's something I do. I hate waiting around. I walk quickly. I walk very quickly. And when I want to try to walk very quickly, I'm almost jogging. I used to hate the classes at the end of the day which were held on the far side of the school because even if I got out on time, I'd race along and be caught in the middle of the other students. They all seemed to zombie walk across the oval, and through the streets. Getting past them was always tricky. Some of them would try to talk to you; usually to annoy or bully you. Others would genuinely try to talk to you and slow you down. But that was rare. The walk from my school to my house would take a normal person around my height about thirty minutes. I got it down to 14. I swear I reached 12 one day but I can't recall.
You have to understand that School was nothing but a torment and seemed to be a waste of my time. I absolutely loathed the idea of homework. When that school bell rang it meant that I finally had time to myself. And those hours were so precious and few. I'd race home, have something to eat and relax for a little bit. Then that time was mine. I'd often spend it working on a script or putting together a Radio Play. Or maybe designing a website or chatting to my friends online. Actually from 13 to 14 years old I used to MUD pretty hard. Before World of Warcraft there was MUD. Text based online gaming. But half the fun of doing that was getting to talk to people from Oxford University, where the MUD had been created. It was then my dream of moving to England began to take shape. But that's a story for another time. I'd try to keep to myself and with the aid of Doug speaking well of me, it meant that people mostly started to leave me alone. I say mostly because of course I still got tormented by certain people. It just happens. But I remember what one guy said when he was bullying some guy as I walked past. He saw me and was about to start on me. But then he paused and said,
'Oh.. Not you. You're too nice.'
The third thing happened much later. In Year Ten I started getting involved in Drama pretty heavily. It was mostly thanks to the school play. I'd been cast in one of the lead roles. But my ability to perform is a curious thing. You'd think it's the complete opposite of everything I just wrote above, about being left alone. Allow me to explain.
Even when I was in Primary School, I remember being able to make people laugh. I used to do sound effects. There were a couple of guys who used to tolerate me and they did so mostly to use me as something of a human jukebox. I dunno, I'm weird. I used to play with my toys a lot (that was how I wrote stories for years) and I used to act out theme songs, incidental music, sound effects and camera angles. (I'd lie on the floor in awkward places and whatnot for the camera angles.) I also remember being buddied up with some kids who were younger than me in Primary School on some school carnival and somehow managing to make them laugh. This one kid dubbed me "Jimeon." Because I kind of looked like him at the time and I was funny. Jimeon is an Irish comedian who had a popular TV series in Australia in the mid nineties. Whenever this kid used to see me around school after that he'd cry out,
'Hey look! It's Jimeon!'
I think I have a talent for performing. In high school I made the critical error of mistaking this for acting. I'm not much of an actor. But I can perform and I can certainly make people laugh. I don't care if that sounds arrogant, its true. In fact it's so true that I find people laugh at me without me even trying. I think I have a comical face. It's more expressive than I think it is. But couple this with the fact that, for nearly every day of my life that I could remember, I had been degraded. Honestly, if you've not experienced that I just want you to try and imagine it. Ok, so it wasn't in a violent way. I could have had it much worse. But imagine not being beaten up or massively psychologically abused, but simply picked on, pretty much every day of your life? Or at least that you could remember? I don't know if you guys have read my other blog posts.. but this is me we're talking about here. I'm the hideous, disgusting guy that wet the bed until he was 11. I'm the guy who girls couldn't stand to touch. I'm the guy who felt sorry for anyone who had to deal with me in any way, shape or form. My whole life was an embarrassment.
One day, when I got up on stage I suddenly realised that I simply had nothing to lose. I couldn't be humiliated. I was already humiliated. How can a nothing like me possibly fall any lower? There was no fear. And the thing about performing is that you're in control. When you get up on that stage there's a very good chance you're making a fool of yourself. But you have complete control over the process. It's up to you to make people laugh or smile. It's up to you to make people pay attention. How could I terrified of that? If you stopped me in the street and tried to talk to me I'd be terrified. I'd have no control whatsoever. I wouldn't know what to say, what to do, nothing. But put me on stage and I'd come to life. I think I still would. I could hop on a stage in front of millions and talk quite comfortably.
The funny thing about all this is that people respond to that. The public speakers we can't stand are the ones who speak in monotones or are so nervous and obviously physically distraught that it actually unsettles us. It's difficult for an audience to endure. But as a performer, if you're comfortable and don't give a shit then the audience can relax and enjoy themselves. I also have a self depreciating sense of humour which has helped me tremendously. I'll happily make fun of my shortcomings to get a laugh. Why the hell not? Even now I make more bald jokes than anyone else. And by embracing these things and joking about them you begin to own them.
I was one of the leads in the school musical in year ten and I'm not being arrogant when I say that I think I was the favourite character. Me and my co-star got the biggest applause on every night. But by then I was already passionate about comedy. I was obsessed with Dr.Who and this had led to an unhealthy pursuit of all English comedy. I lived for UK-TV. I'd absorb everything I could get my hands on. I loved it. I loved the language and the lyrical quality many of them took. I loved the absurdness and the way the characters embrace self depreciation. It was silly and yet somehow dignified. Teenagers were out smoking weed, listening to music, having sex and doing god knows what else. But me? I was writing Dr.Who redisplays. British comedy styled redisplays and soaking up as much British comedy as I humanly possible.
So I became witty. Or maybe I was always witty and it was hiding. Well, OK, I'm not that witty. But I have been described as such in the past and I think it's mostly true. People started to see me performing in High School. This was the biggest dose of credibility I could ever ask for. Seriously if you can make people laugh then they will forgive you for anything. My last few years in High School were definitely the drama days. I was still a lanky, pimply weirdo with hair that looked like a mixture between Albert Einstein and Inspector Gadget, but it meant that people mostly left me alone, but with respect. Actually some would try to engage with me or talk to me. But I'd do what I always do and end the conversation as quickly as possible (for their sake. Speak to me? Ugh!) Except for the friends I'd started to make.
So yeah. I've never really had a problem with public speakers or performing. I cringe when somebody gets up which is clearly terrified and mutters the words. I can understand if they're scared actually. They can't help that although it's still painful for the audience, which probably makes the experience so much worse for them. But I despise passionless monotones. People who get up there and just try to bore you to death. It occurs to me that some of you might be wondering how to go about giving a good speech or talking in public. Here's my advice.
If you're not directly reading a passage then don't give a "speech." Just talk to the audience. Engage them. Talk to them as if they're your friends in your living room. Ask them questions. Make jokes. Be absurd. Be passionate. Don't make it a speech unless it HAS to be, make it a casual chat. People will love you for it.
Song:
Sunday, April 3, 2011
My First Taste Of Spider-man
My first memory of Spider-man was way back when we were living in Kalgoorlie. I must have been around three of four years old, so pretty damn young. I don't remember much about those days, of growing up in dusty old Kalgoorlie. For those international readers, I'm from Perth Western Australia. Kalgoorlie is a Gold mining town where red dust rules the day. It;s developed up a hell of a lot more since my day, though. When I was growing up there, things were a lot smaller. But I digress..
Many of my early memories seem to involve my older brother and sister getting to go places while I was stuck at home. I'm one of the biggest Tim Burton fans you'll ever meet, yet I was denied being allowed to see Batman. My dad went and took my brother instead.
But my introduction to one of the great artistic loves of my life (and yes I consider Spider-man to be art, deal with it) came about when the fair came to town. I don't know what show it was. I have no idea. I just distinctly remember something coming to town, setting up tents and there being all kinds of lights, rides, stalls and one of those big metal ball cages where the motorbikes ride around and around.
So although I wasn't allowed to go, I'm pretty sure I came along to pick up my brother and sister. They must have gotten a show bag or something. Do you guys have showbags overseas? Here at such things, we have these little plastic bags filled with all kinds of crap. I call em showboats because The Royal Show has em. Now I can;t be certain, but I'm pretty sure I was given something from one of these bags in order to settle me down. Or maybe because I wasn't allowed to go. I have no idea. I just remember the bright lights, the motorbike cage and then being at home and seeing Spider-man for the first time. On something. I don't know what. Not sure if it was a comic.
The image has stuck with me ever since, however. The costume stood out. It was cold and colourful. But it went over his entire body. He seemed mysterious and slightly creepy, sticking to the wall with that big red spider on his back standing out against the blue. But the part of the design that sold me for the rest of my life were the eyes. Those fantastic eyes on that amazing design just stuck with me. They're slightly creepy too, kind of frightening. Yet it was clear that this was a Superhero. He was obviously a good guy, and yet he was a spider.
Spiders, to me, meant going to the outhouse at 2am when I needed to pee and being terrified one was going to emerge. It meant creepy crawly wriggly legs, dark places and strange webs, sometimes sticky and sometimes fluffy. The idea of a man who took on these properties was alluring. I never read or really saw anything else to do with Spiderman for many years. But it didn't matter because the seed had been planted. I was already hypnotised by this strange character who I barely understood.
Fast forward to Ninteen Ninety Two. I must have been Eight. For some reason I had two comic books. I think I saw them in the shop and begged for them. Honestly I'm guessing here. I don't really remember how or why they got into my possession, only that they did and the next stage of my obsession was planted. These were the two issues that changed my life forever:
Only they didn't look like that on the front cover. Marvel Comics reprinted the original run of "Amazing Spider-man," comics with different covers. On the back page they showed what the original covers looked like. I can't remember what the covers I actually had appeared to be, for some reason it didn;t stay with me, But the cover for Issue 100 in particular burned into my brain.
My fondest memory of this comic was when I actually took the time to sit down and read it. I was pretty young and not the best at reading. I certainly never really read any books. Well, not true I did read a few. Bit probably less than most people at that age who go on to read a lot. I remember getting a torch and after being put to bed, hiding under my covers with the torch, reading these two issues of The Amazing Spider-man. I know this sounds like some kind of cheesy cliche from a TV series, but god damn it I really did this. And that was the first time I forced myself to read a comic properly, reading all the words and trying to understand them. I think I struggled a bit, but thanks to the amazing artwork I was able to piece together what was happening. And what a story!
The end of issue 100 has an amazing climax where Peter Parker grows four extra arms, while trying to cure himself of his powers. And in issue 101, he not only has to somehow hide this from everyone normal, but he also faces Morbius, a killer vampire character!
It wasn't until the next year that I finally became what I'd call a Spider-man nerd, but that;s another story for another time. I just wanted to share these two memories. They've really stuck with me. Seeing that amazing design and being haunted by it, back in Kalgoorlie. And me, under the covers, reading those two comics and being amazed by the incredible world that was opening up in front of me. I think back on these two things and I can't help but smile. They make me happy.
Song:
Many of my early memories seem to involve my older brother and sister getting to go places while I was stuck at home. I'm one of the biggest Tim Burton fans you'll ever meet, yet I was denied being allowed to see Batman. My dad went and took my brother instead.
But my introduction to one of the great artistic loves of my life (and yes I consider Spider-man to be art, deal with it) came about when the fair came to town. I don't know what show it was. I have no idea. I just distinctly remember something coming to town, setting up tents and there being all kinds of lights, rides, stalls and one of those big metal ball cages where the motorbikes ride around and around.
So although I wasn't allowed to go, I'm pretty sure I came along to pick up my brother and sister. They must have gotten a show bag or something. Do you guys have showbags overseas? Here at such things, we have these little plastic bags filled with all kinds of crap. I call em showboats because The Royal Show has em. Now I can;t be certain, but I'm pretty sure I was given something from one of these bags in order to settle me down. Or maybe because I wasn't allowed to go. I have no idea. I just remember the bright lights, the motorbike cage and then being at home and seeing Spider-man for the first time. On something. I don't know what. Not sure if it was a comic.
The image has stuck with me ever since, however. The costume stood out. It was cold and colourful. But it went over his entire body. He seemed mysterious and slightly creepy, sticking to the wall with that big red spider on his back standing out against the blue. But the part of the design that sold me for the rest of my life were the eyes. Those fantastic eyes on that amazing design just stuck with me. They're slightly creepy too, kind of frightening. Yet it was clear that this was a Superhero. He was obviously a good guy, and yet he was a spider.
Spiders, to me, meant going to the outhouse at 2am when I needed to pee and being terrified one was going to emerge. It meant creepy crawly wriggly legs, dark places and strange webs, sometimes sticky and sometimes fluffy. The idea of a man who took on these properties was alluring. I never read or really saw anything else to do with Spiderman for many years. But it didn't matter because the seed had been planted. I was already hypnotised by this strange character who I barely understood.
Fast forward to Ninteen Ninety Two. I must have been Eight. For some reason I had two comic books. I think I saw them in the shop and begged for them. Honestly I'm guessing here. I don't really remember how or why they got into my possession, only that they did and the next stage of my obsession was planted. These were the two issues that changed my life forever:
Only they didn't look like that on the front cover. Marvel Comics reprinted the original run of "Amazing Spider-man," comics with different covers. On the back page they showed what the original covers looked like. I can't remember what the covers I actually had appeared to be, for some reason it didn;t stay with me, But the cover for Issue 100 in particular burned into my brain.
My fondest memory of this comic was when I actually took the time to sit down and read it. I was pretty young and not the best at reading. I certainly never really read any books. Well, not true I did read a few. Bit probably less than most people at that age who go on to read a lot. I remember getting a torch and after being put to bed, hiding under my covers with the torch, reading these two issues of The Amazing Spider-man. I know this sounds like some kind of cheesy cliche from a TV series, but god damn it I really did this. And that was the first time I forced myself to read a comic properly, reading all the words and trying to understand them. I think I struggled a bit, but thanks to the amazing artwork I was able to piece together what was happening. And what a story!
The end of issue 100 has an amazing climax where Peter Parker grows four extra arms, while trying to cure himself of his powers. And in issue 101, he not only has to somehow hide this from everyone normal, but he also faces Morbius, a killer vampire character!
It wasn't until the next year that I finally became what I'd call a Spider-man nerd, but that;s another story for another time. I just wanted to share these two memories. They've really stuck with me. Seeing that amazing design and being haunted by it, back in Kalgoorlie. And me, under the covers, reading those two comics and being amazed by the incredible world that was opening up in front of me. I think back on these two things and I can't help but smile. They make me happy.
Song:
Friday, April 1, 2011
The Girl Who (Probably) Liked Me
So for those of you following at home, I've spoken in this blog recently about being a teenager and my deficiencies as a human. I've spoken about how inhuman I seem to be and my ability to disgust and bemuse pretty much anyone. But there is always an exception to prove the rule. Something which happened recently reminded me of someone from high school. A girl who actually did (probably) seem to like me.
It was year 10, in 99 and I had landed one of the lead roles in the school production. A musical set in the 60's, my character was a Russian Spy and probably the best (certainly funniest) character in the show. A lass called Sarah, a few years my senior, was my sidekick. She was the brains and I got to be the loveable fool. A role that I seem to adopt in every day life, I might add. So anyway, this was a big school production for the year and a lot was involved from the cast and also the music students. Somebody thought it'd be a good idea to bring us all down somewhere (I honestly don't remember where, but it wasn't too far away) for a weekend camp. The music students had their activities and we had our own, for bonding, practising and whatnot. Of course we'd all come together for other things.
High school camps are always eye openers. For the students it's the perfect opportunity to cause as much trouble and mischief as they can possibly muster. I kind feel sorry for the teachers, but something tells me they were probably sat in one of their own dorm rooms late at night with a bottle of whiskey. Anyway so we'd all been shuffled off to this camp. We were thrown into form rooms which had about four of five bunk beds. The guys had their dorms all in one block and on the far side of the campground the girls had theirs. I honestly can't remember what on Earth we did for most of the camp. Us actors certainly didn't practise any of our lines or work on our blocking. Or if we did it was so minimal that I can barely remember it. I know for a fact the music guys did have to shuffle off fairly often and practise. I suppose the music teacher was more organised and full on than the drama teacher, who was fairly laid back.
But it was Saturday night that stands out in my mind. We'd all been shuffled into our dorms for the night. Of course none of us could possibly sleep. You know what these situations are like. Everyone is in bed talking absolute shit to one another. Playing absurd games which involve answering intimate questions about ones self. There's always a few guys who are shuffling about. Everybody is restless. Outside a teacher passed by every few minutes. We could see his body blocking the light which came in through the windows. We'd all fall silent upon his passing and then resume shortly after when we figured it was safe to do so. Every now and then we'd all stop dead even though we couldn't see a shadow, convinced the teacher had been wily enough to sneak up on us. Getting caught messing about on these things was usually pretty serious and often involved suspension.
But we were young and clearly insane and the teachers were old and tired, as they often are. Soon the sentry didn't return. It wasn't long afterwards that the night truly came alive. It was interesting for me, to observe the progression from a quiet night outside where everything was still, to the chaos that unfolded. It began with the sound of footsteps on pavement, dashing past our dorms. Soon there were giggles from not too far away. Then whispers. Then talking and more laughing and even more giggles still. The girls had emerged as had many of the boys. One of the girls who played the main character and was in year 12 burst open our door. She came inside and told us of the wonders going on in the camp. Guys were hooking up with girls. Some of them had managed to sneak in alcohol and it was being shared on the far side of camp. There was talk of drugs, I'm sure, though I never saw any. The outside of the dorms was a grassed area and from my bottom bunk I could see, through the door, people running around outside. The adults had retired and we had claimed the night.
Well, I say we, but I certainly wasn't one of them. Being an old, grumpy man at the age of 15, I hand't moved from my bed at all. I sat quietly, talking and whatnot, like some kind of absurd sleepover but the truth was that I was getting tired and just wanted to sleep. This business of being a teenager, breaking the rules, chasing girls and whatnot was of no interest to me whatsoever. I remember sitting in bed with my arms folded and frowning at the whole thing. The image of this in my mind still makes me chuckle. How completely absurd I am.
So then Laura comes into the dorm. Her name isn't Laura, but we'll call her that. (Many people had been coming and going by this point, and the guy in the bunk above me had two year 12 girls in bed with him, though nothing was happening.) Laura was an awkward but pretty girl who was tall and blonde. She had eyes that seemed to sparkle and a nervous smile. Her cheeks flushed red. She was the kind of girl who hung around with the stoners. A group of guys who were obsessed with The Doors and The Who. I didn't listen to any commercial music at this point, I mostly listened to classical music or film and TV scores- but we'll go into that later. The guys in her group were actually ok guys, they didn't really bully anyone was such, they were just rough. And you know, into drugs, stealing and god knows what else such people get into. Actually, one of them was uncommonly friendly and I have nothing bad to say about him. He was just a hippy, really. But anyway, this was Laura's crowd. Laura was in my form, so I kind of saw her every day although we barely spoke. She had been in my English class the year before and sat nearby. My file was plastered with pictures from Doctor Who (which back then was so absolutely unheard of by people my age I was constantly harassed about it.) She commented that she'd been named after a character from Dr.Who. (Her real name, not the fake name I am using here.) She was always nice to me, and to my friend in that class. Laura was the kind of girl I really had nothing bad to say about. She played the trumpet, I believe, which is why she was at this camp.
Now let me take you back a little bit. Saturday night at camp, but long before we'd gone to bed. We'd had some kind of.. jesus I don't know what you'd call it. An event in the camps main hall. One of those school things which isn't quiote a party, but music does eventually get played and it's casual with games and whatnot. As the night edged on a DJ came out and started playing music. It was then we began to "Snowball." I don't know if this is an Australian thing, but a Snowball is usually held at discos and whatnot when you're in school. I can't quite remember the specifics, but it usually starts with one boy and one girl who more or less ballroom/slow dance for a few minutes. Then the music stops and each picks another partner. Laura was second or third, I believe, to be chosen. Quite early on, anyway. When the time came for her to pick a partner she went straight to me- much to my bewilderment and surprise. I remember, being lanky, uncoordinated, tall, nervous and awkward. I also remember her telling me to loosen up and relax. I endured this, figured she was just being the nice person she always was and thought nothing more on it, despite a few people from the crowd jeering how Daniel has an admirer and whatnot. This went on all night and I dismissed it. Remember, for me such a thing was entirely impossible, so I never considered it could happen.
Fast forward to when the teachers were asleep and the teenagers had taken over camp. In came Laura. She stood next to my bunk and chatted to us. She told us more stories about what was going on around the camp. (I never got out of bed, or left the dorm at ANY point.) I can't remember what else we really said, all of us in the dorm, but I know she must have been there for three or four minutes before one of the teachers came bursting through the door. To this day I am amazed at her speed, agility and quick thinking and wonder if she'd done this sort of thing before. Laura instantly leapt onto my bed, crawled into the covers, over me and hid under the covers behind me, against the wall. My first thought was this:
"Blast. She's going to get me into so much trouble."
So I rolled over and pretended to sleep. I do this masterfully and even have a little snore I can do which sounds utterly convincing. The teacher was startled and frankly, somewhat impressed by the guy above me with the two year 12s in his bed. All three were taken out and got into serious trouble. Luckily this seemed to distract him from really looking around the dorm too much. Also, the teacher probably saw me asleep and figured I was just that dorky kid, so no trouble there. One thing I'll never forget however, was having her under the bed, the warmth of her close to my body whilst she giggled uncontrollably, her hand covering her mouth so as to stifle them. When the teacher left she emerged unscathed. We marvelled at her quick thinking. She continued the theme by escaping out the back window.
Monday morning I came walking into form class, first thing in the morning. I passed Laura, sitting at her table with her friends. They all looked at me expectedly and laughed.
'My Hero,' Laura said as I passed. I paused, confused, and looked down at them, before doing what I've always done in such situations. I shrugged and pretended it didn't happen, muttering a polite response and sitting at my desk, moving on with my life.
A week later my friend Doug, who was rather popular and very well connected at the school came up to me.
'What's going on between you and Laura?' he said with a huge grin on his face. The fellow was something of a womaniser and still is.
'Eh? Oh nothing she just hid in my bed.'
'Hid in your bed eh? eh?' he said.
'No, really. The teacher came in so she hid. That's it.'
'That's not what she's saying,' Doug said. I frowned.
'What do you mean?' I asked.
'She's telling a very different version of events.'
'Huh. What is she saying?' I asked.
'She's telling everyone that you two had sex.'
'Yeah right,' I say sarcastically. He looks at me seriously.
'No really. She's been doing it all week to everyone and anyone. Everybody is talking about it.'
'But.. that;s.. Doug, you do know that never happened, right?'
'If you say so then I believe you. But that girl is telling people that you both had sex. Daniel, I think she likes you. She's liked you for ages. Can't you tell?'
'Impossible,' I said. 'I'm not worried. Let people talk, they always do. I have my own life. I'm not one of them. I'll just ignore it.'
And so I did. I basically moved on with my life, convinced that Doug was wrong and that Laura really was just a nice girl who made up stories about us for reasons I can't comprehend. But the thing is, years later I looked back on this whole thing and I started to wonder. Maybe I'm wrong, but I really do think this girl had something of a cheesy high school crush on me. God only knows why. Honestly, I have no idea. But maybe it was true. Maybe, just once, somebody did see me that way. But we all do foolish things when we're young, right?
Song: "This Too Shall Pass," by OK Go.
It was year 10, in 99 and I had landed one of the lead roles in the school production. A musical set in the 60's, my character was a Russian Spy and probably the best (certainly funniest) character in the show. A lass called Sarah, a few years my senior, was my sidekick. She was the brains and I got to be the loveable fool. A role that I seem to adopt in every day life, I might add. So anyway, this was a big school production for the year and a lot was involved from the cast and also the music students. Somebody thought it'd be a good idea to bring us all down somewhere (I honestly don't remember where, but it wasn't too far away) for a weekend camp. The music students had their activities and we had our own, for bonding, practising and whatnot. Of course we'd all come together for other things.
High school camps are always eye openers. For the students it's the perfect opportunity to cause as much trouble and mischief as they can possibly muster. I kind feel sorry for the teachers, but something tells me they were probably sat in one of their own dorm rooms late at night with a bottle of whiskey. Anyway so we'd all been shuffled off to this camp. We were thrown into form rooms which had about four of five bunk beds. The guys had their dorms all in one block and on the far side of the campground the girls had theirs. I honestly can't remember what on Earth we did for most of the camp. Us actors certainly didn't practise any of our lines or work on our blocking. Or if we did it was so minimal that I can barely remember it. I know for a fact the music guys did have to shuffle off fairly often and practise. I suppose the music teacher was more organised and full on than the drama teacher, who was fairly laid back.
But it was Saturday night that stands out in my mind. We'd all been shuffled into our dorms for the night. Of course none of us could possibly sleep. You know what these situations are like. Everyone is in bed talking absolute shit to one another. Playing absurd games which involve answering intimate questions about ones self. There's always a few guys who are shuffling about. Everybody is restless. Outside a teacher passed by every few minutes. We could see his body blocking the light which came in through the windows. We'd all fall silent upon his passing and then resume shortly after when we figured it was safe to do so. Every now and then we'd all stop dead even though we couldn't see a shadow, convinced the teacher had been wily enough to sneak up on us. Getting caught messing about on these things was usually pretty serious and often involved suspension.
But we were young and clearly insane and the teachers were old and tired, as they often are. Soon the sentry didn't return. It wasn't long afterwards that the night truly came alive. It was interesting for me, to observe the progression from a quiet night outside where everything was still, to the chaos that unfolded. It began with the sound of footsteps on pavement, dashing past our dorms. Soon there were giggles from not too far away. Then whispers. Then talking and more laughing and even more giggles still. The girls had emerged as had many of the boys. One of the girls who played the main character and was in year 12 burst open our door. She came inside and told us of the wonders going on in the camp. Guys were hooking up with girls. Some of them had managed to sneak in alcohol and it was being shared on the far side of camp. There was talk of drugs, I'm sure, though I never saw any. The outside of the dorms was a grassed area and from my bottom bunk I could see, through the door, people running around outside. The adults had retired and we had claimed the night.
Well, I say we, but I certainly wasn't one of them. Being an old, grumpy man at the age of 15, I hand't moved from my bed at all. I sat quietly, talking and whatnot, like some kind of absurd sleepover but the truth was that I was getting tired and just wanted to sleep. This business of being a teenager, breaking the rules, chasing girls and whatnot was of no interest to me whatsoever. I remember sitting in bed with my arms folded and frowning at the whole thing. The image of this in my mind still makes me chuckle. How completely absurd I am.
So then Laura comes into the dorm. Her name isn't Laura, but we'll call her that. (Many people had been coming and going by this point, and the guy in the bunk above me had two year 12 girls in bed with him, though nothing was happening.) Laura was an awkward but pretty girl who was tall and blonde. She had eyes that seemed to sparkle and a nervous smile. Her cheeks flushed red. She was the kind of girl who hung around with the stoners. A group of guys who were obsessed with The Doors and The Who. I didn't listen to any commercial music at this point, I mostly listened to classical music or film and TV scores- but we'll go into that later. The guys in her group were actually ok guys, they didn't really bully anyone was such, they were just rough. And you know, into drugs, stealing and god knows what else such people get into. Actually, one of them was uncommonly friendly and I have nothing bad to say about him. He was just a hippy, really. But anyway, this was Laura's crowd. Laura was in my form, so I kind of saw her every day although we barely spoke. She had been in my English class the year before and sat nearby. My file was plastered with pictures from Doctor Who (which back then was so absolutely unheard of by people my age I was constantly harassed about it.) She commented that she'd been named after a character from Dr.Who. (Her real name, not the fake name I am using here.) She was always nice to me, and to my friend in that class. Laura was the kind of girl I really had nothing bad to say about. She played the trumpet, I believe, which is why she was at this camp.
Now let me take you back a little bit. Saturday night at camp, but long before we'd gone to bed. We'd had some kind of.. jesus I don't know what you'd call it. An event in the camps main hall. One of those school things which isn't quiote a party, but music does eventually get played and it's casual with games and whatnot. As the night edged on a DJ came out and started playing music. It was then we began to "Snowball." I don't know if this is an Australian thing, but a Snowball is usually held at discos and whatnot when you're in school. I can't quite remember the specifics, but it usually starts with one boy and one girl who more or less ballroom/slow dance for a few minutes. Then the music stops and each picks another partner. Laura was second or third, I believe, to be chosen. Quite early on, anyway. When the time came for her to pick a partner she went straight to me- much to my bewilderment and surprise. I remember, being lanky, uncoordinated, tall, nervous and awkward. I also remember her telling me to loosen up and relax. I endured this, figured she was just being the nice person she always was and thought nothing more on it, despite a few people from the crowd jeering how Daniel has an admirer and whatnot. This went on all night and I dismissed it. Remember, for me such a thing was entirely impossible, so I never considered it could happen.
Fast forward to when the teachers were asleep and the teenagers had taken over camp. In came Laura. She stood next to my bunk and chatted to us. She told us more stories about what was going on around the camp. (I never got out of bed, or left the dorm at ANY point.) I can't remember what else we really said, all of us in the dorm, but I know she must have been there for three or four minutes before one of the teachers came bursting through the door. To this day I am amazed at her speed, agility and quick thinking and wonder if she'd done this sort of thing before. Laura instantly leapt onto my bed, crawled into the covers, over me and hid under the covers behind me, against the wall. My first thought was this:
"Blast. She's going to get me into so much trouble."
So I rolled over and pretended to sleep. I do this masterfully and even have a little snore I can do which sounds utterly convincing. The teacher was startled and frankly, somewhat impressed by the guy above me with the two year 12s in his bed. All three were taken out and got into serious trouble. Luckily this seemed to distract him from really looking around the dorm too much. Also, the teacher probably saw me asleep and figured I was just that dorky kid, so no trouble there. One thing I'll never forget however, was having her under the bed, the warmth of her close to my body whilst she giggled uncontrollably, her hand covering her mouth so as to stifle them. When the teacher left she emerged unscathed. We marvelled at her quick thinking. She continued the theme by escaping out the back window.
Monday morning I came walking into form class, first thing in the morning. I passed Laura, sitting at her table with her friends. They all looked at me expectedly and laughed.
'My Hero,' Laura said as I passed. I paused, confused, and looked down at them, before doing what I've always done in such situations. I shrugged and pretended it didn't happen, muttering a polite response and sitting at my desk, moving on with my life.
A week later my friend Doug, who was rather popular and very well connected at the school came up to me.
'What's going on between you and Laura?' he said with a huge grin on his face. The fellow was something of a womaniser and still is.
'Eh? Oh nothing she just hid in my bed.'
'Hid in your bed eh? eh?' he said.
'No, really. The teacher came in so she hid. That's it.'
'That's not what she's saying,' Doug said. I frowned.
'What do you mean?' I asked.
'She's telling a very different version of events.'
'Huh. What is she saying?' I asked.
'She's telling everyone that you two had sex.'
'Yeah right,' I say sarcastically. He looks at me seriously.
'No really. She's been doing it all week to everyone and anyone. Everybody is talking about it.'
'But.. that;s.. Doug, you do know that never happened, right?'
'If you say so then I believe you. But that girl is telling people that you both had sex. Daniel, I think she likes you. She's liked you for ages. Can't you tell?'
'Impossible,' I said. 'I'm not worried. Let people talk, they always do. I have my own life. I'm not one of them. I'll just ignore it.'
And so I did. I basically moved on with my life, convinced that Doug was wrong and that Laura really was just a nice girl who made up stories about us for reasons I can't comprehend. But the thing is, years later I looked back on this whole thing and I started to wonder. Maybe I'm wrong, but I really do think this girl had something of a cheesy high school crush on me. God only knows why. Honestly, I have no idea. But maybe it was true. Maybe, just once, somebody did see me that way. But we all do foolish things when we're young, right?
Song: "This Too Shall Pass," by OK Go.
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