DeAnne Smith

THE Yukon: Pine Trees and Snow

2011-12-01T22:11:00.016-05:00

Hi guys! First off, I'm going to resist the urge to remark on the fact that the last time I blogged was in June. And I'm not going to admonish myself, privately or publicly, for being neglectful and lazy and procrastinate-y and not tall enough and lacking in global political knowledge and generally somehow bad. Okay? I will not do that. The fact is, it's here and now and I'm this tall and I know what I know about Yemen and this is the blog post that is happening.

And it is happening because I AM IN THE YUKON. That's right. The Yukon(1) .

How did I get here? you and I might be wondering right now. I'm not really sure. At this point, it's a haze of all-day multiple plane rides and a whimsical email I received in August, which went like this:

I found out your name by google searching for "vajimjam". I got 1 result.

You invented that.

What are you doing in November? Want to come to the Yukon?

My response:

That's crazy. Vajimjam. Maybe I should feel proud?

I totally want to come to the Yukon in November. How serious is this offer? ;)

So now I'm here in Whitehorse, half expecting to run into this guy.

Yukon Cornelius! Until today, that pick-licking cartoon character encompassed the extent of my knowledge of the Yukon. I knew it was filled with gold, the fog was thick as peanut butter, and one had to watch out for Bumbles (2) . That was about it.

I've only been here for a few hours, so I don't know much more yet. But I do know that I'm pretty into Whitehorse. It's homey. I mean, look at this scene I discovered when I went in for an interview with the CBC.

Okay, the Christmas tree I discovered; Dave and the dog I posed. But still! They were up for it. And nothing says "home" to me like a seasonal tree and a person who is willing to do what I say (3).

After the interview, I checked out a few shops on Main Street, scored some winter boots (Hey, icy winter clime: SUCK IT), and went for dinner at Ruby's, one of the most charming (and delicious) vegetarian restaurants I've ever been to. At the risk of rambling on, I'll let you read for yourself how cool Ruby is here. (Seriously, read that. How cool is she?!)

Ruby and her husband Pierre hooked me up with this plate of deliciousness:

I just realized that to you non-vegetarians, that mostly monochromatic plate of mush might not look terribly appealing. But to vegan, gluten-free, traveling-all-day, up-since-4 a.m., 2-hours-of-sleep ME, it looked and tasted and smelled and felt like actual heaven. I couldn't eat it all (having stopped off at Burnt Toast Cafe for truffle oil fries when Ruby's wasn't open, something that Ruby herself gently admonished me for) so I asked for some to take away.

"How big are your coat pockets?" Ruby asked.

"Not nearly big enough to contain my love for you," I said. Okay, I didn't really say that, but I wanted to.

I am currently finishing up that meal in my hotel room using plastic coffee stirrers as makeshift chopsticks. And you know what? As I bite roasted tofu off a stirrer, gravy on my lip, I don't feel like a pathetic traveling comedian with a delicate digestive system, lonely and alone and lonely in a remote hotel room in the middle of a cold, desolate, and unforgiving landscape a stone's throw away from actual Russia. I do not. I feel like a king.

So, thank you, Ruby. Thank you, Whitehorse.

And though it's only 8:30 p.m. now, I'm getting ready to hit the hay, which I'm pretty excited(4) about. I'll leave you guys here. Tomorrow: dog sledding!

(1)There seems to be much debate about whether it is most properly referred to as "Yukon" or "The Yukon." Some think that calling it "The Yukon" is marginalizing, because one would not say "The Ontario" or "The Quebec." Others think that because it is a territory (i.e. The Yukon Territory), using the definite article is not only acceptable, it is preferable. I've decided to pitch my proverbial tent firmly in the "The Yukon" camp. Why? I just like how it sounds. And while normally I would be inclined to ask around and see how most of the Sourdoughs-- those are people who have spent at least one full turn of seasons in The Yukon-- refer to the area, I will not. Because I feel that making a strong decision based on nothing but a gut reaction and then sticking to that decision, naysayers be damned, is exactly the sort of single-minded and hard-knuckled spirit that forged this great land. Long live The Yukon!

(2)Um, I'm pretty into the Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer Christmas special. And no, not just because I bear an uncanny resemblance to Hermey.

(3)Yes, I realize this could be unhealthy.

(4)Excited for real. This is about seven hours earlier than my usual bedtime. This means, I can sleep a ton and still wake up at 7 a.m. or something! I'll be like a whole other person! A Yukon person! I'll go out for early morning coffee and vegan/gluten free treats (I spotted a bakery today; this town has thought of everything), and I'll write in a cafe and figure out what jokes I'll do in my show and walk around and feel like a productive member of human society. Do you know when the last time I voluntarily saw 7 a.m. was? Um, NEVER.

MICF Roadshow 2011: Dinosaurs of the Past- Sale (& Warburton)

2011-06-06T08:20:00.001-04:00

Road Show has come to a close for me this year, and I'm nestled back in the chilly Southern Highlands of New South Wales. I really don't know whether or not the enjoyment you mysterious readers in ether-space get out of these blog posts is proportionate to the level of near-crippling perfectionism and guilt I feel when creating them(1) but I am going to assume that this is worth it for someone out there. (Even if it's only Future Me. Hello, Future Me! Remember when we went to these places? Also, can you play "Rocket Man" on ukulele yet? How's the unicycle-riding coming along?)

I have about eight towns to catch us up on, and I will do so whimsically, with very little regard for geography or linear time. (Hmm, maybe my time in Nimbin affected me more than I thought it did.) I'll start with Sale, Victoria.

Sale is a lovely little town that cares a lot about its local football team. Make that teams. Sale is home to not one but two Australian rules football teams: Sale and Sale City. Unfortunately, we didn't get to see any of Sale's football games, but we did drive to neighboring Maffra to catch the Maffra Eagles in action.

Yup, that's the action. Don't let the picture fool you, though. Country footy(2) is AMAZING. It's got all the excitement of regular football, with none of the player scandals! You can barrack(3) for your favorite team completely free of the moral dilemma that ensues in professional football, where barracking for your favorite team is kind of ruined by knowing exactly how many rape and assault charges its players have been brought up on in the previous six months. Country footy is just good, ol' fashioned fun.

As far as I can tell, the key elements of enjoying country footy include: driving your car up to the edge of the field, eating meat pies, yelling at young men in shorts, eavesdropping on the coach's address, and running onto the field to kick the footy during half time. I'm happy to say I engaged in all but one of those activities. (Try to guess which one!) If it weren't for vague undercurrents of homophobia, I'm pretty sure I could be quite happy living in the country and supporting my local footy team every week. Go Eagles! Look alive, boys! Keep up the hustle, number 17!(4)

Another wonderful thing about Sale was the effort the venue manager put into our back stage area. Not only did we have a GLUTEN-FREE snack tray...Wait, sorry. I can't just move on from that. I need you to understand (Or remember. How's it going, Future Me?) that snack trays aren't just a thing that all venues provide. We'll usually have some waters and soft drinks back stage, and we may see the occasional biscuits(5) or Cherry Ripe. A snack tray in itself is notable, and an all gluten-free snack tray is...is...I don't even have the words. I won't foist pictures of it upon you, but you can trust that much photograph evidence of this gluten-free snack tray exists and that I refer to the evidence in times of scarcity and need, so that I may hope and have faith in a better future.

In addition to the gluten-free snack tray, we found dinosaurs back stage!

And for some reason, in our two nights at the Esso BHP Billiton Wellington Entertainment Centre, the dinosaurs invariably ended up in this position,

rapt as the pterodactyl preached on about how, one day, they would all end up as oil, gas and coal, making possible the very companies that sponsor the Esso BHP Billiton Wellington Entertainment Centre in which the dinosaurs were currently housed(6). Mind-blowing.

As fun as Sale was, I couldn't stop thinking about Warburton. You may already know Warburton(7) as the gluten-free cafe haven I wrote about earlier.

On our second day in Warburton, after chowing down on yet another beautiful vegan, gluten-free breakfast at Good Food, we decided to take a little stroll.

Just when I thought Warburton couldn't get any more adorable

we stumbled upon this tiny house. Then, we found this gorgeously picturesque river

complete with ducks!

"Well, that's gotta be it," I thought. "There's NO WAY this town could get any more quaint."

Oh, except for that "Please don't ride your horses here" sign. Oh, and these signs, posted on the antique shop door.

If you can't quite see the post-its, they say "Back in a minute" and "Sorry have a funeral today. ? opening time." I could quite easily write an entire novel based on these notes, but I'll leave you with just a few thoughts. I love a shopkeeper that is comfortable enough to disclose the potentially very personal reason why they are out of the shop, and who is also optimistic enough to think that the funeral will only take a minute. I want to meet that shopkeeper. I want to buy his or her wares. The notes broke my heart and made me smile, a feeling I usually only get when I watch sleeping kittens fall off the things they're sleeping on.

I didn't want to leave Warburton. It had everything for me. Gluten-free food, tiny river houses, eccentric shopkeepers, ducks. This is how I felt before we got into the car,

completely oblivious to how much amazing Road Show goodness was yet to come! (And completely oblivious to the lesbian at the ATM behind me. As for how I know she was a lesbian, trust me. I know. I have ways.(8))

(1)Anyone know a good therapist?

(2)I speak Australian now. It's full on.

(3)This is how Australians say "root for." "Root" means to have sex. Needless to say, Australians get a huge kick out of Roots Canada.

(4)All things I actually yelled.

(5)AKA Cookies. I need to get back tah North America befoe I completely moph inta an Ozzie, mate.

(6) According to Earthsky.com, "The popular idea that oil, gas, and coal are made of dead dinosaurs is mistaken. Fossil fuels consist mainly of dead plants – coal from trees, and natural gas and oil from algae, a kind of water plant. Your car engine doesn’t burn dead dinosaurs – it burns dead algae.

Oil, gas, and coal deposits are really remnants of ancient muddy swamps. Dead plants accumulate, and, over time, pressure turns the mud and dead plants into rock. Geologists call the once-living matter in the rock kerogen. Earth’s internal heat cooks the kerogen. The hotter it gets, the faster it becomes oil, gas, or coal. If the heat continues for long enough after oil forms, all the oil might become gas. The oil and gas then creeps through cracks in the rocks. Much is lost. We find oil and gas today because some happened to become trapped in porous, sponge-like rock layers capped by non-porous rocks. Fossil fuel experts call this arrangement a reservoir."

Don't say this blog never taught ya nuthin'.

(7) It's a little bit casually racist, which I'm choosing to ignore for the purposes of this post.

(8) Most of my ways involve stereotyping people based on how they are dressed. Also, eye contact.

MICF Road Show 2011: Gold Coast, Nimbin, Ballina - We Eat the Sun

2011-06-03T00:08:00.025-04:00

Guys! Get ready to take a photographic tour of Surfer's Paradise, Nimbin, and Ballina. We here at DeAnne Smith feel the self-imposed pressure to crank out the blog posts, so we're triple-timing this one, in the hopes of eventually catching up on everywhere we've visited. We're also referring to ourselves in the plural. It just makes us feel good.

We didn't take too many photos of Surfer's Paradise. Despite the name, Surfer's Paradise doesn't feel terribly paradise-like, unless your idea of paradise contains flashing neon lights, lots of offers for $9.99 cargo shorts, and quite a few novelty condom shops. (And hey, we're not judging you if it does.)

This is what Surfer's Paradise looks like from a hotel balcony.

As you can see, Surfer's Paradise is not unlike Meg Ryan's face. Pretty, yes, but also overwhelmingly built up and commercial. The spirit of Surfer's Paradise is perhaps best captured by the gigantic television constantly blaring into this courtyard.

We might have been tempted to say that Surfer's Paradise has no soul, if it weren't for this
statue of a dog named Matey. Any city that: 1. names a dog Matey and 2. erects a statue to that dog is fine by us.

We can understand what made so many people flock to Surfer's Paradise in the first place, with beaches like this.

(We won't tell you about all the concrete we had to carefully crop out of the photo to get that pristine-looking shot because that might spoil its beauty.)

Speaking of beauty, on our way out of Surfer's Paradise and on to Ballina, we decided to stop by Nimbin. Nimbin, if you don't already know, is Australia's renowned hippie enclave, sister city to Woodstock. It's located in what's known as the "Rainbow Region." Just as we were leaving Surfer's, what should appear?

That's right, a rainbow, also known as God's signal that he approves of gays.

But nothing could have prepared us for the site of Nimbin, a small strip of almost impossibly bright and colorful shops nestled in the mountains. Let us tell you, Nimbin takes that "Rainbow Region" stuff pretty seriously.

We'd heard that a lot of pot-smokin' goes down in the 'bin (Okay, we never heard anyone refer to it as "the 'bin.") but we didn't expect to be offered pot LESS THAN FIVE SECONDS after we shut the car door. We also didn't expect to be offered pot so regularly and consistently throughout our stroll of the town that we finally just had to avoid eye contact with every single person on the street. Which actually wasn't too difficult, considering the street looks like this.

Even if you don't choose to partake in the 'bin's main export, Nimbin itself will mellow you out and trip out your eyes. There are signs and symbols everywhere. Signs like

and

and, of course

FYI: That is comedian Dave Callan, not a Nimbin resident. Dave did blend in pretty well with the Nimbinians though, considering at least 57% of their male inhabitants look like wizards.

The Nimbin people are an interesting bunch. If I had less regard for my own personal safety, I would have snapped more photos of them for you. (Sorry. We can't keep up with referring to ourselves in the plural anymore. It's driving us crazy.) I did manage to get this one, though.

And it's pretty typically Nimbin. In one shot, you see a young dreadlocked mom, a spaced-out, wide-eyed child, an old hippie dressed in clothes that are not from this earthy realm, and a sketchy man. In Nimbin, these are the people in your neighborhood. They're the people that you meet when you're walking down the street, they're the people that you meet each daaaaaaaay!*

Look closely and you will also see Rainbow Cafe and the Nimbin Musuem, which we'll get to in a minute. First, the Nimbin store sign that says it all:

I'm convinced the store is really named "Perception" and they either ran out of room for the N and thought "Whatever. We're not slaves to the alphabet in this town. Fuck the man!" or it was a mistake that no one has noticed to this day.

"Dude, here's that new sign you ordered for your store, Perception."
"Thanks, man. It's awesome. The rainbow background is just so...well...like, it's rainbowy, you know what I mean? All the different colors. That's great, man."
"Yeah."
"And the heart. Is that chalk? That is sweet, man! I'll put quotes and stuff in there. You know, like consciousness-raising kind of shit. Quotes and stuff. In the heart. That's so symbolic, man."
"Yeah."
"And the ivy. Is that, like, silver vine? You're a genius, man! 'Cause that's exactly how it is! Like, you know, plants, man, they're just light. They're just light. Because everything comes from the sun, you know what I mean? And the plants take in the sun and so, like, they're really just made of light. That's what plants are. That's what they do. No. No! That's what they BE. They're so awesome, man. Holy shit. Oh my god. And we eat plants and we're made of plants so really, like, we're made of light. We're made of light! Essentially, man, if you think about it, if plants eat sunlight and we eat plants, we eat the sun. Are you following me, man? That's happening. That's what's happening. We're doing that every day. It's beautiful, man. Hold on. Wait. I just thought of some new lyrics for my band. I'm gonna write this down. No. I'm gonna paint this on a wall. Yeah. I'm gonna paint this on a wall. Do you have any paint, man?"
"..."
"Any paint, man?"
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Did you say something?"

However the sign came about, the message on it is always good to hear: "A smile is the lighting system of the face, the cooling system of the head and the heating system of the heart."

Those are words to remember. Or would be, if the entire town of Nimbin wasn't covered in words to remember, which makes remembering any of them that much more difficult.

The "museum" is where you'll find most of these words of wisdom. According to the museum's website, the museum "is an effort to communicate the history of Nimbin through the eyes of a hippie." That's an accurate description, if you replace "communicate the history of Nimbin" with "jam as much junk as possible into every square inch of eight dank rooms" and replace "hippie" with "manic, disconnected, borderline schizophrenic drug-addled brain."

The museum is truly a site to see, and I'm afraid that photos alone don't do it justice. Winding your way along the rainbow serpent path

you'll come across stuff like this, which assaults your eyes with so much incongruous visual information that it's nearly impossible to remember where you are or what you're supposed to be doing, let alone focus on what's in front of you.

Is that solider? A British flag? A framed picture of Jesus? What's that stuffed horse doing there? Why is there a plate with a picture of Einstein on it? Why does the plate say "Sponge Finger Addict?" What does "Sponge Finger Addict" even mean? Where am I? Why is any of this happening? What's written on the side of that tiny cow?

Oh. But before you can either 1. be disturbed by the implications of "Female Vermin" written on the side of a tiny cow or 2. question what it has to do with the history of Nimbin, just look up and to your right.

A collection of suspended kitchen implements! And then the words of wisdom begin.

"Gee, you are you!" I think I get it, Nimbin. Very cute.

What? A monk lives contemplating his feelings?! If that's true, Nimbin, I've been a monk my whole life! And all of my girlfriends have been monks, too. In fact, most lesbians I know are monks. All we do is contemplate our feelings. This is great news.

Thanks, Nimbin. I'm going to keep that all in mind. No, scratch that. I'm going to keep that all in heart.

Perhaps the experience of Nimbin made me more perceptive, sensitive, and alert on my way into Ballina, where I was able to really appreciate not only Ballina's cute puns
but also what seems like the most sympathetic and considerate tattoo shop in the world.

There's Scentalicious Perfume Boutique (not just your common scents) and Tattoos Supa Hygiene, The Gentle Tattooist. I'm in love with the idea of a gentle tattooist. "I don't use needles and ink to get under your skin. I'm the Gentle Tattooist! I use feelings and emotions to make my indelible mark." Wait. According to that, most lesbians I know are gentle tattooists as well.

I know you're thinking, "Yeah, okay. So Ballina has a perfume boutique and a tattooist. But what if I have a lunch problem in Ballina? How am I going to solve my lunch problem? More importantly, will my lunch problem be solved easily or with great difficulty? How much will it cost for me to solve my lunch problem?"

Phew! Knowing that any lunch problems that may arise can be easily solved makes it possible to relax and enjoy Ballina's pleasant riverside sights.

Ah, Ballina. You're a cute little town. And I don't want to seem ungrateful for all the unique beauty you have to offer, but if only you had a bit more of the Nimbin spirit in you...

Does that say "Pieces from all realms?" All realms? Ballina, maybe you do have a bit of that Nimbin spirit after all.

*You will also meet dreadlocked 7-year-old children.

MICF Road Show 2011: Gladstone- Inexplicably Disproportionate Mystery People (and the Library!)

2011-05-30T07:51:00.015-04:00

Greetings from Gladstone, Queensland! Let me tell you a little about the place.

Um...Ah...Gladstone...

Gladstone is...um....

Now, I won't say that Gladstone is depressing. But I will show you this view from my hotel room.

That's not depressing. Look at the ocean! The sky! The construction! Clearly there's industry here. There's movement. There's growth. Growth that wakes you up at 7:30 a.m. on your day off.

Those of you with, like, jobs and stuff might be thinking that waking up at 7:30 a.m. is no big deal. And you're right. It is no big deal. Waking up at 7:30 a.m. is totally normal...IF YOU WORK IN A BAKERY. Since I am not a baker and I have no reason to be up at the crack of dawn makin' scones, 7:30 a.m. is like the left side of Mariah Carey's face to me. Which is to say, it's not something I often see* except on the other side. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against 7:30 a.m. as a time, but I'd much rather stay up until it then wake up at it. [Here's where I might make another allusion to Mariah Carey's face except that the simile is kind of forced and confusing at this point.]

Being woken up by construction at 7:30 a.m. on my day off might not have been so bad if I hadn't woke up at 5:00 a.m. on the day before. And waking up at 5:00 a.m. might not have been so bad if I'd had more than two and a half hours of sleep. And having two and a half hours of sleep might not have been so bad if I wasn't then on a four hour flight from Cairns to Gladstone. And the flight from Cairns to Gladstone might not have been so bad if the plane didn't touch down in Townsville, Mackay and Rockhampton along the way. And touching down in three other towns might not have been so bad if it hadn't meant four separate take-offs and four separate landings, each with their own assault on ear pressure. And the four separate take-offs and landings might not have been so bad if I had been able to sleep through the incessant dings of the seat belt light going on and off or the flight attendants endlessly repeating the safety procedures. And the flight attendants endlessly repeating the safety procedures might not have been so bad if they had given us separate breakfasts on each leg on the flight, roughly every 45 minutes, despite the fact that we had just eaten and the whole thing was absurd. Oh, wait a minute! They DID give us breakfasts on each leg of the flight, approaching me each time as if they had no idea who I was, oblivious to the small orange juice containers building up in the pocket in front of my seat.

It's possible I arrived in Gladstone a bit cranky. But Gladstone needs to shoulder some of the responsibility here. Gladstone, are you listening? There is NO REASON for you to shut down your entire town just because it's Sunday. People still like to go to cafes on Sunday. And if all the cafes and restaurants are closed, people might like to shop for groceries. Yeah, shop for groceries. Now, I don't want to blow into your town with my hoity-toity, big city attitude but you might want to consider opening your Woolworth's on Sunday. It's just sitting there, stuffed with food, doing nothing but teasing me. Can you tell me, Gladstone, where or what a weary, sleep-deprived traveler is supposed to eat on Sunday? And don't tell me to go to Rocks@lt, the only restaurant that's open. I refuse to acknowledge an establishment with a @ in its name.

It was starving, annoyed, and with a heavy heart that I went out to explore Gladstone. "What a crap festival," I thought to myself. (Yes, "crap festival" is a phrase I think to myself.) I perked up when I passed the library, though I knew there was no way it'd be open. Why would it be? It's not known as the Libr@ry, after all.

But with the tiniest shred of hope in my heart, I walked over to the door anyway. You can imagine my shock and surprise when it opened. If you're a total nerd with a thing for libraries,** perhaps you can even imagine my thrill at the opportunity to explore a new and quiet book-filled heaven of delicious dreams. You can not, however, even begin to come close to approximately almost imagining the utter euphoria that spread through me when I saw this:

It's not just a library book sale (my favorite kind). It's a fill-a-shopping-bag-for-$1 library book sale! It's complete madness! And it was enough to make me forgive Gladstone for everything. Maybe it was my new attitude toward the town of Gladstone that the woman at the counter detected when she let me have not one, but TWO shopping bags chock full of books for just one dollar. That's twelve books for a dollar! It was all I could do not to kiss her on the mouth.

Delighted with my new books, I bounded down Goondoon street

where I found this mural.

I thought the library book sale was a blessing, but this wall is filled with so many colorful depictions of life in Gladstone that I was transfixed.

First, there are the lesbians dancing, while another, more butch lesbian serenades them on the flute, reading sheet music from a stand magically hovering off the ground.

There's the black woman to their left, staring directly at the viewer and holding her arms up as if to say, "Yeah, my mouth and earrings look exactly the same. So what? You wanna go? Come on!"

Then, there's the single woman looking on with a mixture of encouragement and wistful envy as she takes her rat for a walk.

If you're wondering what the giant cat in the background is staring at, it's this wind-blown and surprised mime boy inexplicably kneeling over a girl who's reading and trying to twist her legs onto the same spatial plane as the rest of her body.

Behind them, there's this couple on the bench. He seems to be asleep reading the newspaper, while she's pleased to press a teeny tiny book against her skirt.

Just beyond them are the troubled newlyweds. The bride, somewhere between angry and vacant, storms off, while the groom silently pleads with her to stay, with what is the most genuinely expressive face of the entire mural. "I love you," his eyes whisper. "I don't mind if you have tiny feet that could probably never support your body weight. I can take gigantic strides for both of us, especially with my clown-esque right foot. Look at me, damn it! Look at me!"

Maybe the bride isn't cold-hearted. Maybe she's just contemplating their future lives in Gladstone. After all, it's not all dancing lesbians and random mimes. There are some undesirable characters around.

Luckily, the stinky hippie bum is out-numbered by these citizens: the terrified little boy step ladder, the blood-soaked blond woman, the huge unattended yet super intelligent literate baby, the gigantic man with a cut under his eye, and the eensy weensy little boy.

What is that mischievous little boy up to, anyway? Oh, he's just lighting that astronaut's shoulder rocket.

Which is directly aimed at an innocent and oblivious girl skipping past.

A girl who may or may not be sniffing glue with snake around her neck.

I'm sure whatever she's doing with that bottle is more pleasant than hunching over, picking flowers under a giant cat butt.

And it's certainly better than being the only Aboriginal woman in the scene, relegated to looking in sadly from the other side of the fence, while a kid with a really well-developed left buttock and massive left arm tries to get over to reach her.

Gladstone, you really came through for me. Sure, everything except Rocks@lt is closed on Sunday and you look like a ghost town. But you have this dynamic mural, which really tells your story. And you have the library, the incredible library. And, Gladstone, you even have this portent, a glimpse of the person I would become if I stayed here any longer than 24 hours. A person resigned to a life of deathly quiet Sundays, staring bleakly into the future as I haul my library books back home.

*Seriously. Check out photos of her. She's always obscuring the left side of her face. What are you hiding, Mariah? WHAT ARE YOU HIDING?!

**Call me.

MICF Road Show 2011: Warburton- Where Even the Casual Racism is Quaint

2011-05-23T15:52:00.014-04:00

For the record, readers, I'm in Cairns at the moment. Cairns is awesome. I'm sure blog-worthy adventures will unfold here, but in the meantime, I'm going to do my darnedest to catch up on writing about towns I've already been to. And to declare, officially, that I know exactly what my last thoughts will be and what I will feel like should I die in a plane crash.

In the middle of a genuinely scary, shaky landing the other day, I didn't find myself thinking, "Holy shit, I'm going to die!" or "Why me, God? I have so much to live for!" or "I hope my friends and family know how much I love them." No. The actual thought in my mind was, "Oh, really, Qantas? You're going to KILL ME now? First you lose my buddy's luggage for the second time in two weeks, THEN our flight was delayed, and now THIS? You're actually going to kill me? This is subpar service, Qantas. Subpar!" Now I know this about myself. If I go down in a plane crash, I will die annoyed with the service.

Let's all hope I don't die in a plane crash. I don't think that level of self-righteous, white, middle-class consumer annoyance would be good for my soul as it passed into eternal rest. But enough of that. Back onto the road show!

I almost don't even want to tell you what a wonderfully enchanted little hamlet Warburton, Victoria is because I'm afraid when word gets out, its adorable cafes and quaint river picnic areas will be overrun with scarf-wearing, espresso-drinking, Palahniuk-quoting tourists from Melbourne*. I had a feeling I was going to like the town when I checked into my hotel room to find not only this hallway of beds

but also, around the corner, a full double bed.

If there's one thing I like in a hotel, it's the ability to provide me with three times the sleeping options I actually need. It's not often I get to feel like, "Man, if I just had two kids, I could get my money's worth out of this place!"

Warburton had me at triple beds. And then, there was this view from the hotel

which I'm sure the kids would have loved, had they existed and been able to be there.

I walked downtown (which I really should put in quotation marks) and despite feeling good about the place, I didn't expect to find much I could eat. I mean, rural Victoria is not generally a bastion of gluten-free and vegan dining. In fact, in many places in rural Victoria, chicken is listed as a vegetarian option. If you order it, the waitress laughs in your face, spills beef blood on you, and calls you a "poof"**.

Almost immediately, though, I found this sweet little cafe

and I marveled at the amount of lunch selections at my disposal. At least two vegan sandwiches with gluten-free bread! Various fresh-squeezed juices! Cookies! Soup! (Okay, maybe that doesn't seem like a lot of options to the omnivorous eye but to dietary-restricted me, it's an orgy of delicious possibilities.)

After chowing down on some pumpkin soup and toasted gluten-free bread (FYI: never attempt to eat non-toasted gluten-free bread, unless you like choking down glue paste), I went to meet up with the rest of the crew who had settled into a cafe at the other end of downtown (a few steps down the street).

It doesn't matter if this cafe has anything for me, I thought. I'll just hang out. I've already struck gold finding such a delicious, healthy soup. That will keep me going for days, as I sift through the culinary wasteland of chips and garden salads available at town pubs. That soup really hit the spot. It was perfect. It's all I need. Just me and ol' soupie, friends for life as he sloshes around in my stomac--

Oh, that's nice, I thought, glancing at the menu. They offer gluten-free pies at this cafe. Well, too bad I don't eat meat. If I ate meat, maybe I could...Oh my god, what's that? Gluten-free VEGETABLE pies? Is that even a thing? Am I actually going to have the chance to indulge in one of Australia's most iconic foodstuffs, without getting horrible stomach cramps and/or compromising everything I believe in? More importantly, am I actually going to have the chance to say "Gimme a dog's eye and dead horse?" (This is rhyming slang for "a pie and sauce." For real. Australians are weird.)

The answers are yes and yes! Here's a picture of that heavenly pie. (I only thought to add sauce after I took a quick and greedy forkful. I need you to know that before I hoed into it, the pie was a pristine work of art.)

The strange thing is, I didn't even make a smiley face with the sauce. That's just how happy the pie was to see me, its ideal devourer.

How amazing to find two gluten-free-friendly places in one tiny town! I thought. Wow! What a boon! What luck! I mean, there's no way I could--

I'm sorry, what? Scones and treats and they're all gluten free? Well, slap a kangaroo on the cheek and call me Sheila! Stab a koala with a spork and sing waltzing Matilda! Kick a crocodile in the snout and spin Olivia Newton-John in a circle! (These are traditional Australian expressions of disbelief.)***

Just when I thought Warburton couldn't get any more full of love and light and amazement, I ducked into a little spiritual shop. (You know, the kind of place that smells like burning grass, sells crystals, and has far too many owl figurines.) What should I see there, but this beautiful candle, made up of hundreds of smaller candles.

It was so lovely, I thought I'd check it out from another angle

when the woman at the counter said, "What does that sign say?"

"What sign?" I asked. She pointed.

Oh. That sign.

It may have been my bristling at the passive-aggressive way in which she indicated to me that I shouldn't be taking pictures of the candle, or it may have been my innate impudence which prompted me to then take pictures not only of the "No photo's" (cringe) sign, but of the woman herself

who was actually quite pleasant. Oh, Warburton, I thought. What a dream world! So many gluten free options, so many choices of hotel bed, and even your restrictive signs aren't meant to be taken seriously. I really think this is a town I could li--

"You're alright," the woman at the counter said. "It's just the Asians. They drive me crazy."

Warburton. Warburton. Warburton. You were doing so well.

*For the record, I like scarves and espresso and Palahniuk. I also like running perfectly innocuous things together until they sound like insults. Then again, I'm just a wet-haired, pajama-wearing, blog-writing, cookie-eating, music-listening, hangnail-having comedian.

**This is a blatant lie but it creates the mood I'm going for, so I think it is acceptable. (See also: romantic candlelight.)

***Another lie.

MICF Roadshow 2011: Nambour and Redcliffe - What's On

2011-05-22T09:45:00.008-04:00

There are three things you need to know:

1. I'm writing these posts all willy-nilly in terms of chronology and geography, so don't let that trouble you.
2. I'll take any chance I can to wedge the word "willy-nilly" into a sentence.
3. I think that lists sound more complete in threes.

While there is a lot I could write about Nambour, I'll let the "What's On" board at the local pub speak for itself.

And that's Nambour. Now, on to Redcliffe!

We're actually staying in Scarborough, so I don't have much experience with Redcliffe. (Sorry, Redcliffe. I do know that you are the adopted home of the Bee Gees, though, and that's something.) Pretty much everything on Scarborough's main strip is closed on Sunday, so I can't say what that town is like either, other than it's remarkably uneventful. Luckily for Scarborough, though, it has a lovely little beach.

Which gets even lovelier, if you stop and look at it close up.

And if you get really close, you may see that even rocks can express emotions.

Hey, little buddy. Why are you so sad? What's going on? Why the tiny tear? Have you seen something that upset you? Surely, this is an idyllic little seaside town, with the beach right here and a beautiful park up on the hill. Certainly there wouldn't be anything disturbing in your immediate area. There wouldn't be any strange, unexpected plant-like growths that would be weird, or unidentifiable to the North American eye, or unmistakably penis-shaped. There's nothing to be sad about, little guy. Turn that frown upsi--

Oh. Oh, goodness. My.

MICF Roadshow 2011: Morewell, VIC - Luxury and Indulgence

2011-05-20T23:59:00.001-04:00

Hi everyone. I am currently writing from the sunny sub-tropical paradise of Noosa, Queensland, located on the aptly named Sunshine Coast. When I woke up this morning, this is the view that greeted me:

I should tell you now that in this blog, I will be sharing with you some spectacular photos that hint at a life of luxury and indulgence. My life is indeed blessed and magical (Self-affirmation: My life is blessed and magical. My life is blessed and magical. My life is blessed and magical.), but I don't want you to get jealous. I don't want you to question the blessedness and magicality of your own lives, which I'm sure are amazing, even if your lives right now consist of you sitting home staring at a computer screen, reading about someone else's international adventures with no alternative but to accept the words they make up as they are writing about those adventures. I don't want you to start to resent me (critically-acclaimed comedian DeAnne Smith) just because I am fully living my dreams, traveling throughout a wonderful and beautiful country doing exactly what I love to do. I don't want you to look around at what I assume are your shabby home furnishings and feel anything less than great about what I'm sure are your best efforts at eking out the least depressing existence you can manage with your (perhaps limited) level of intelligence and ambition. I can only hope that you don't feel too bad as you read this and see that this leg of my road show journey started a few days ago in illustrious Morewell*, Victoria, where my accommodation looked like this:

Yes, that's correct. If there's one thing that whispers luxury and indulgence when it comes to motel accessories, it's red towels. Luxury and indulgence. That's what red towels mean, and I think we can all agree. Luxury. Indulgence. We all agree. Red towels in a motel don't mean "Hey, we can't afford better towels" or "Look, we don't know how to use bleach" or "Gosh, blood stains sure are stubborn!" No. Red towels = Luxury + Indulgence. WE CAN ALL AGREE.

Oh, and I don't want to brag, but that's not all that was in my motel room. There was also-- and brace yourself to keep envy from engulfing you-- a purpose-built heated tool to remove wrinkles from fabric. But it doesn't stop there. Oh no. In addition to that, my room also housed a small, foldable table with a heat resistant surface on which to wield that tool.

I know you haven't seen such quality upholstery before, so I'll walk you through it. Those are deformed facsimiles of Disney characters Mickey, Pluto and Donald Duck, engaged in the sort of philosophical debate with which self-reflective world travelers of my caliber are often confronted. "What fruit do I like most?" they ask. The answer is, of course, "I like pineapple most." What this somewhat surreal fabric is doing on an ironing board intended for adult use is something you don't need to trouble yourself over, readers. Just sit back on your Ikea couch and be content with the mediocre success you've achieved. Let's just say there are some things in the world of luxurious and indulgent world travel that you just aren't ready to comprehend.

*If you're wondering why I didn't talk about the town of Morewell at all, it's because I was only there for about 16 hours. I'm sure** there are many wonderful attractions in Morewell about which I could have written extensively, had I had more time there.

**I'm not sure about that at all. But if someone*** from the town of Morewell should read this, I don't want them to feel bad.

***I doubt anyone from the town of Morewell will read this.

MICF Road Show 2011: A Wide Brown Land

2011-05-20T23:47:00.025-04:00

Guys! Welcome back to the blog.

Yes, I know it's been a, um, year since I've last written here. But let me just say, in my defense, that I've never claimed to be consistent. Also, in my defence, I don't even spell common English words consistently, when two versions of those words exist and are both equally acceptable. In fact, in the past, I've been described by friends as "consistently inconsistent." And I think that description really fits, except for when I don't.

What I'm trying to say, is here we are. I'm back on the Melbourne International Comedy Festival Road Show and I want to share my experiences with you, via this blog. I also want to share my experiences with you via interpretive dance, intricate papier-mâché masks and West African Polyrhythms, but some things will have to wait. (Papier-mâché takes a long time to dry and I'm not even sure what West African Polyrhythms are. Plus, I'd need to enroll in some kind of modern dance class. It might be years before I get that all together.)

I've been wondering how best to organize these entries, because I'm already quite behind on the day-by-day method. Then I realized: I'll just do the gosh darn best I can and you guys can be grateful for what you get. Deal? Besides, it makes sense that I'm a little discombobulated. In the span of less than two days, I went from this:

to this:

In less than five days, I made these stops around the continent of Australia:

I started in Sale, Victoria, and I'm now in Noosa, Queensland. Now, please don't think that I'm complaining, because I'm not. I'm not the type of person to find travel stressful. I actually find it thrilling to wake up in a strange room and for a good few minutes have no idea what time it is, what day it is, or where on the planet I am currently located. Yeah! That's life, man! Livin' to the fullest! I like waking up full of questions such as Who am I? What year is it? What's this sticky stuff on my knee? Life's a mystery, dudes. Embrace it.

I will admit, though, that things almost got stressful when our flight was delayed in Darwin. But in addition to being placated with $30 vouchers for airport eats, we managed to sweet-talk our way into the Qantas Club Lounge, narrowly avoiding what would have been the unbearable torture of having to wait for an extra hour and forty minutes in the airport. (Read: among the common people.) No. We settled into the lounge, where we as inconvenienced Silver Frequent Flyers rightfully belonged, nestled in sweet free buffet luxury with our well-heeled peers and colleagues, tip-tapping on our internet-connected laptops, sipping cocktails and picking at extravagant meat and cheese platters.

Oh, the grandeur!

After nibbling on the many delicious gourmet offerings available to me in the Qantas Club Lounge (read: two watermelon slices and a gluten-free cookie), I still had a $30 voucher to spend at the airport restaurants, which consisted of Red Rooster and a "cafe" called something like Awakenings or Whispers or Kozy Momentz. I didn't really see what it was called, because the name was written in Papyrus font, which I refuse to acknowledge on a purely aesthetic basis. (This is also my policy on Gary Busey's teeth and the state of Pennsylvania*.) After buying a fruit cup ($7.90 and chock full of useless cantaloupe, the Pennsylvania of the fruit world) and a juice ($3.90), I still had $18.20 to spend. What did I do with this money, my friends? I did the only thing I felt I could do. I bought three slices of $5 banana bread.

It doesn't matter that thanks to both self-imposed and intestine-imposed dietary restrictions, I couldn't eat that banana bread. That's not what it was about. It was about the personal challenge of seeing if, in the seven minutes before I had to board my flight, I could offload that banana bread on strangers.** Let me tell you, it's not as easy as it may seem to offer haphazardly-plastic-wrapped foodstuffs to total strangers in an airport.

Let me rephrase that. It's actually really easy to offer haphazardly-plastic-wrapped foodstuffs to total strangers in an airport, but what's not as easy is getting them to accept those foodstuffs and then put those foodstuffs in their mouth and chew them and swallow them and ultimately allow those foodstuffs to become part of their body's cellular makeup. (Whoa. I don't think I realized how intimate the whole exchange was until right now.) But I did it! I got rid of all the banana bread, and with time to spare. I think I owe my success to the fact that I am nice and I look friendly, and banana bread is freaking delicious. To all the cynical people that rejected my no-strings-attached offer of banana bread, I hope that one day you will be able to open your hearts and allow the universe's eternal abundance of blessings to flow into and enrich your life. To the business man, woman at the news stand, and young mother that did accept my banana bread, I hope it was tasty and didn't give you gas. But if it did, you can blame the people at Tempting Treets (or whatever that cafe was called). I didn't make it. It's not my fault. Jesus, I was just trying to do something nice!

So guys, this about wraps it up for this blog post. I'm going to keep 'em coming (and do my best to catch up on the places I've already been), so stay tuned.

*My issues with the state of Pennsylvania are too complex and numerous to get into here. But trust me. Pennsylvania knows what it's done.

**The other option was bringing the banana bread onto the plane with me. Every fifteen minutes or so, I'd take out a piece, have one bite, and then set it aside. When the flight attendant came to collect garbage at the the end of the flight, I'd pile all my nearly-whole slices of bread into the bin. This plan was scrapped for two reasons. One, I really needed more than three pieces of bread to make it funny. Two, the idea was to confuse the people sitting near me, and all the people sitting near me were fellow comics. They'd either think nothing of it, and/or ask to finish my bread.

Days 10-13, Yarrawonga, Myrtleford, West Wyalong and Hillston: Death Couldn't Hold Them!!

2010-05-23T05:00:00.023-04:00

Welcome back, avid readers.*

Whether or not I have any right to be, I'm exhausted after this last week of touring. I tell ya, talking into a microphone for 20 minutes a night in front of appreciative country crowds is hard work. I mean, not only am I talking, but I'm standing up! On my feet! Under lights! On a stage!

So, what did these last four days hold? For one, a lot of grilled fish and salad meals at RSLs, which for you non-Australian readers are Retired Servicemen's Leagues, the heart and soul of every small town in Australia. Imagine multicolored carpet (usually in shades of purple, speckled with electric blue), Christmas lights pulled up to form a sort of light tent over the room, poker machines, beer, and battered foodstuffs, and you won't be far off.

The other thing that featured heavily in the past few days was long, country drives. The landscape looks like this:

Or this:

Don't get me wrong. I don't mean to suggest that the small towns of Yarrawonga, Myrtleford, West Wyalong and Hillston don't each have their own unique history and flavor. They do. The landscape of Myrtleford, for example, is dominated by this decimated hill:

But, at the same time, made whimsical by sights such as this:

Yarrawonga (which we only dropped into for the show) was very hospitable, providing us not only with wine and chocolates afterwards** but with this backstage rider as well:

West Wyalong, deep in The Shire of Bland***, has a lovely sense of humor about itself, as evidenced by this bag:

And Hillston. Well, Hillston (pop. 1,030) has a gigantic cotton gin.

That's right, I've been to a cotton gin. Jealous? And not only have I been to a cotton gin, but I've been there with the MAYOR of Hillston. I wish now, for the blog's sake, I had either learned his last name or snapped a picture. You'll have to just trust me. Hillston was so excited to have us comedians in town that we went on a 3-hour tour of the place, alongside Mayor Peter. Mayor Peter then took us to Watson's Farm, run by the very rugged and handsome Tim Watson, supplier of all the watermelons in all the Coles in all of Victoria. He's just your average multi-millionaire farmer guy.**** Here's his beetroot field:

And if you think that's a boring picture, please bear in mind that I'm giving you the highlights here. Like the comedy crew posing on the farm:

And this book, that I picked up in a shop in Rutherglen.

The Total Woman, (c) 1967, written by Marabel Morgan as pictured here:

Here's an excerpt from page 95.

"I have heard women complain, 'My husband isn't satisfied with just me. He wants lots of women. What can I do?' You can be lots of different women to him. Costumes provide variety without him ever leaving home. I believe that every man needs excitement and high adventure at home. Never let him know what to expect when he opens the front door; make it like opening a surprise package. You may be a smoldering sexpot, or an all-American fresh beauty. Be a pixie or a pirate-- a cowgirl or a show girl. Keep him off guard."

Okay, pretty radical advice from a self-professed evangelical Christian in 1967, right? I'll ignore for the moment the underlying tone of desperation ("Oh, God, what do I need to do to keep my man?!?") and the fact that Marabel seems to think it's reasonable to keep a man off guard by greeting him at the door dressed as a pirate. ("Arrrrgh!" [Cue Heart Attack.]) I can get down with the spontaneous playfulness she's talking about. Here's what else she has to say:

"You may not want a costume party every night, but you can work toward it. Keep a step ahead of your husband."

Okay, Marabel, I'm with you. Well, minus the working toward a costume party every night thing. That seems excessive.

"Keep him guessing. If you have older children, naturally use discretion when they are around."

Yes, of course. That's a good point, Marabel.

"You may not wish to parade around in nylon net at half-past five with your fifteen-year-old son all eyes."

Oh goodness, no. So right you are, Marabel.

"But the children will love your costumes."

Pardon me?

"It makes like exciting. Can't you just imagine Junior on the sandlot telling his friends, 'I've got to go now, guys. Got to see Mom's outfit for tonight.'"

No. No. No, I can't imagine that. I don't want to imagine that. Why are you making me imagine that, Marabel? Please don't write any more about...

"One son came home from college while his mother was taking the course. He told her, 'Mom, you look so cute lately. I hope I can find a woman like you for a wife.'"

Ahh, my eyes are burning! I've read too much! Make it stop, Marabel, make it stop!

So, apparently, Marabel has no sense of boundaries. If you're interested in what else makes a Total Woman, keep in mind that "A Total Woman caters to her man's special quirks, whether it be in salads, sex or sports," and "It's only when a woman surrenders her life to her husband, reveres and worships him and is willing to serve him, that she becomes really beautiful to him."

Hear that, ladies? Just worship your husband and surrender your life to him, and you, too, can be a Total Woman(tm)! A Total Woman who is constantly creeping out your children.

Finally, I'll leave you with the best Church sign I have ever seen.

And if THAT doesn't make you want to worship Jesus, I don't know what will.

Thus I conclude my Melbourne International Comedy Festival Road Show blog. Until next year!*****

*I'm posting this way later than I actually wrote it, in case you're confused.

**Who's bringing home regional wine to the girlfriend's mom and chocolates to the grandma? Who will look extremely thoughtful and generous while actually putting in very little effort? This kid!

***Actual shire name.

****Farmer Tim and his riches, however, do not hold a candle to Hillston's Potato Mogul. This guy supplies ALL THE POTATOES in Woolworth's FOR THE WHOLE OF AUSTRALIA from his 180,000 acre farm. He is kind of old, and kind of fat, and married to a gorgeous former Playboy Bunny. The lesson here: Potatoes = Poontang

*****I mean for this specific type of blog update. Come back soon for...I don't know what yet, but something. Definitely something.

Day Nine, Rutherglen: A Nice Port

2010-05-19T03:08:00.008-04:00

The day started with a drive from Melbourne to Rutherglen*, which looked a lot like this:

We stopped for lunch in historic Glenrowan, where Ned Kelly was captured. Let me explain the Ned Kelly legend for you non-Australians. Ned Kelly is an Australian folk hero who put a garbage pail on his head and took out some cops.

The story is slightly more complicated than that, but not much. Look into it sometime, if only for the colorful language employed in its telling. I found out, for example, that Kelly was "black-balled" by a Constable. That means that the Constable grabbed and squeezed Ned Kelly's testicles in an effort to subdue him. If this sort of detail has made it into the history books, you can imagine what other strangely homoerotic confrontations may have been left out. You'll also discover that Kelly racked up many charges in his criminal days, my favorite of which is "feloniously receiving a horse." ("Sir, how did you come to receive this horse?" "Um...feloniously?" "You're under arrest!")

Basically, Ned Kelly is a great example of how bad-ass Australia is. It's a country of convicts with a bona fide cop-killer hero! Gansta rappers are complete babies by comparison. Yeah, Ice-T, I'm looking at you. You're named after a beverage, for Christ's sake, a beverage made from leaves.

Soon after lunch, we arrived in Rutherglen. Now, look. I don't want to use this blog to brag about how awesome my life is. I won't tell you that we're staying in a boutique hotel on a winery, with in-room spas, or that my room happens to be decorated in a colorful Moroccan style. I won't tell you that the town of Rutherglen is freaking adorable, especially when bathed in late afternoon sunlight, or that it's filled with 100-year-old architecture housing quaint little cafes and bookshops and people who love wine. Instead, I'll show you this sign on the way into town:

And this poster, pinned up in the "green room" of the RSL where we performed:

As far as I can tell, it's some kind of advertisement for mental health in the elderly. Let's be realistic here, though. Could anyone fault the ol' guy for a spot of confusion upon realizing that he and his female companion had morphed into the exact same human being? ("I don't have dementia, god damn it! That's me over there! That woman in the red turtleneck is ME!")

I would also like to point out that Rutherglen is a town of about 2,500 and we performed in a sold-out theatre of 350. That's 14% of the entire town, if you're awesome at math, which I am. And those 14% were, on average, gray-haired and surprisingly game. ("Tell it to my balls!" I shouted, while indicating my groin area, and oh, how they laughed and laughed, wiping tears from under their bifocaled spectacles.)

After the show, and after much moral indecision, I decided to jump in the spa. Yeah, I know it took a long time to fill up, and I know Australia is a country under water restrictions. But I eventually justified my decision as fodder for decadent tales for the grandkids, after most of earth's fresh water has been depleted.

"I used to just SIT in it, kids! I wasn't even dirty! I would just fill up a big tub, plunk down into it, and let the bubbles tickle my skin! What's that, Xenic? No, I didn't drink it, or use it to wash off the nuclear dust. I just sat in it, alone, like a queen! Ah, those were the days. Now, pass me that eyedropper. Grandma needs her government-regulated, daily water dose. Mmm, almost moist."

*While writing about the town in text messages, I found it easiest to input the town's name in blocks, as "rut her glen," and then eliminate the spaces. Now, despite the fact that really nothing in this town is raunchy in the slightest, I can't help but think of it in that way.

Day Eight, Melbourne: None of Your Beeswax

2010-05-19T01:52:00.002-04:00

Look, this was my day off and frankly, I don't feel an obligation to make it public. I will say that this 18 hour stop in Melbourne was one of the best 18 hours of my life, for various undisclosed reasons. I mean, we're close, Blog, but not that close. If you're feeling left out, you're more than welcome to imagine* those 18 hours, if you must.

*Your imagined scenarios, however, will not be nearly as sexy as my 18 hours turned out to be. Did you upgrade me to the Penthouse Suite in your imagination? Did you imagine said Penthouse Suite only accessible through a secret elevator on the 20th floor? Did you then have me enjoying the Penthouse Suite by watching Sandra Bullock in The Blind Side? Yeah, didn't think so.

Day Seven, Townsville: Suicide Stairs

2010-05-19T01:37:00.007-04:00

Overheard on Castle Hill in Townsville:

Middle-aged Lady: [Apprehensively.] Are these the bugger stairs?

Mean Middle-aged Lady: This is the beginning of the bugger stairs. The suicide stairs are over there. [Cackles.]

Yes, friends, Day 7 had me slappin' on some socks for the first time in a week, pretending my everyday shoes were hiking shoes (Well, any of my shoes could transform into hiking shoes in a pinch.) and tackling Townsville's Castle Hill. Here's what it looks like from afar:

Pretty imposing, huh? And this, more or less, is what it looks like from the top:

So there you have it. If you'd like to save yourself the steep 30 minute climb, sweaty brow, and niggling worries about your ever-declining level of physical fitness ("I mean, come on, Body, we used to RUN, gosh darn it! Don't you remember those days? See that 8-year-old with a dog? They just flew past you! Step it up!"), consider yourself to have done it. All you're missing is athletic people fully decked out in nylon shorts complimenting you on your comedy while you wheeze your way up the hill, red-faced and dripping with sweat. Oh, and the fear that if you don't get into shape, you'll be in a sip-and-puff operated wheelchair by age 52. Oh, and maybe the shameful experience of breaking into sentimental tears in front of "Got to Dance" back at the hotel while eating takeaway Indian food. Other than that, if you've seen these pictures, you've climbed Castle Hill. Congratulations!

Day Six, Townsville: "Interesting? Fuck off!"

2010-05-16T01:21:00.011-04:00

First off, the main thing you need to know about Townsville is that there ain't much happening in Townsville. Word on the street is that the best things to do are check out us, or some dude named Luke Pickler, who seems both saddened and mystified by the fact that he has two heads.

The other thing going down in the Towns (as I affectionately refer to it) is some incredibly bad cafe art. I snapped these pics for you, mustering all my acting strength as I pretended to admire them.

"That's not so bad," you may be saying to yourself. "Why do you have to be so judgmental? Clearly, the artist has developed his or her own personal style. Rustic, yes, but who says women's arms need to be of natural length or that their proportionally enormous breasts should inhabit the same spacial plane or flop in a manner that respects the known laws of physics? Who says women need to have noses, for that matter? It's a painting, DeAnne! A representation! So what if the subject holds a wine glass directly under one of her nipples so that it appears as if the monstrous nipple is draining liquid into the glass? That's an artist's prerogative! Why shouldn't there be a somewhat detailed and realistic-looking cat standing to the left of a bird so crudely smudged onto the canvas that the background ocean is visible through his body? It's art, man! And if the evil-looking cat has more facial expression than the woman, all the better! It's probably some kind of statement! As if there's some painting rule book that claims that a representation of Castle Hill should not loom large and distractingly in the background, dotted with indistinguishable white blocks and what appears to be a cave-style drawing of a freakishly gigantic person ascending the hill! You're not the Judge of Art, DeAnne Smith! Why don't you stick to what you know? Yeah, go back to your occasionally insightful and quite often surprisingly dirty jokes, you joke-teller! That right there is a good painting and I like it! I like its colors and its abnormal and irregular shadowing pattern, so you know what? Go screw yourself!"

Okay. Geez. No need to get aggressive. Fair enough. But would you feel the same way about that painting if I showed you this one?

It's basically another crack at the first one, but with a different color scheme, more prominently placed breasts, and a smaller and more deformed cat. And what if I showed you another in the series?

Mmm hmm. I rest my case.

What else does the Ville of Towns hold? Violently fun Mexican-themed restaurants with menus designed for drunks with ADD? Check!

Young white men taking part in impromptu strangling sessions? Check!

How about middle-aged men sitting on benches near Woolworths in full daylight who hold their dicks in their hands and pee directly onto the sidewalk, missing your foot by mere centimeters? Check, check and check!

While I was tempted to snap a photo of that last one for you, I thought better of it. Instead, what I did was have a very honest (if somewhat subdued) reaction while staring this gentleman dead in the face.

"Interesting," I said.

"What? Interesting?!" he spat back.

Reflecting upon my initial response, I decided that yes, this was indeed a situation of interest. With that in mind, I replied, "Yup."

To which he, still urinating into the foot path, responded, "FUCK OFF!"

And that, my friends, is a day in the life of Townsville.

Day Five, Townsville: Haikus

2010-05-15T00:39:00.004-04:00

Greetings from historic Townsville. Actually, I have no idea if Townsville is historic or not but somehow "lovely" Townsville doesn't quite cut it. Don't get me wrong. Townsville's not a bad place. It's, um, definitely a...place. It has houses and water and bridges and palm trees. It also seems to have an extraordinary amount of closed and/or under-construction shops. It's kind of tricky for me to put my finger on the pulse of Townsville, but I'm starting to suspect that the non-pulse IS the pulse.

At this exact moment, I am in an internet cafe with 7 other people while Bruce Springsteen plays on the radio. Despite walking around Townsville for about 40 minutes, and stopping to eat in a cafe, this is the greatest number of people I've seen assembled in one place all day. Townsville. "You can't start a fire without a spark..."

Here are some Townsville-inspired haikus for your blog-readin' enjoyment.

Luxury
The hotel is sweet.
Glass wall in the bathroom means
T.V. from the loo.

Dinner
Benny's Hot Wok is
not a bad restaurant but
the logo's racist.

(See? Jesus.)

Honest Answer
At the gig, heckling.
Me: "I don't want to engage.
Now back to my stuff."

Backstage
Smart Casual's Ben
taught me a strumming pattern.
Damn, I love the uke.

Fundamental Beliefs Shaken While Watching a Panel Show
Jennifer Lopez,
despite everything I thought,
is not an air head.

Movie Channel
About to watch Doubt.
Catholic pedophilia.
Really? That happens?!!

Day Four, Cairns: Sweet Reef

2010-05-13T12:39:00.006-04:00

Let's start with the massage. As I type this, I've got four hot eucalyptus patches burning holes into my shoulders and lower back, working their secret, ancient magic. It feels good, I think. I just hope I don't lose too much skin tomorrow morning when these puppies come off.

After performing in front of a sold-out crowd at the Civic Centre, post-gig night massage (at Cairns's famous Night Markets) was a level of rock star* luxury I couldn't pass up. As was purchasing the burning eucalyptus patches. When my day started, I never could have anticipated that it would end with a young South Korean man digging his elbows into my buttocks, but I suppose life is full of surprises.

I enjoy massage, I think. To be honest, I can never just fully relax and get into it, as at least 35% of my attention is reserved for observing and commenting on the experience. During a massage, my inner monologue goes a little something like: "Oh, okay. This is how it starts. Right. That's a lot harder than I thought he would-- oh, that tickles. I didn't know I was ticklish there. How can it kind of hurt and tickle at the same time? Is that good? Is that helping or making it worse? And now...okay...that was a crack. He's cracking my back now. Right. Okay. And now, he's moving further down. Interesting. Are those his elbows? Is he using his elbows? That feels like elbows. Those are definitely elbows. Jesus, how far in is he gonna go with-- oh, okay. Just to there. Yeah, I guess that's fine. Massage. This is a massage. I am getting a massage right now."

The other thing that happens when I get a massage is, I fall a little bit in love. I'm sure it's just the intimate nature of human touch triggering certain pleasure centers in my brain. At least, that's what I'd like to think and not just that I am overly emotional and perhaps starved for affection. When this young man massaged my hands, part of me was thinking, "That feels very nice. I love this. Well, I guess I have a boyfriend now. I hope we're always together, just like this, and our relationship never ends. I love him. He's my boyfriend."

I have to say, that massage was sweet reef. Sweet reef, if you don't already know**, is the cool new way to say that something is fantastic. Let's say you don't go to the falafel place I went to for dinner tonight, where the guy is mean and has no front teeth and threatens not to serve you if you don't want the wrap and only want the falafel on a plate and then, only after your male comedian friends step up and get involved, he finally relents and serves you falafel on a plate but puts so many raw onions on the plate (a truly ridiculous heap of raw onions) that you're certain this is his subtle way of continuing to be an asshole about the fact that you don't want a wrap as if your inability to digest wheat products is somehow a personal affront to him and his entire falafel business, and instead of doing what I did, you go somewhere else and have a delicious falafel. You might say of that delicious falafel, "Dude, that falafel was sweet reef." Meaning, of course, that it was one delicious falafel, and that its falafelness was as falafelly as it could possibly get. Sweet reef.

I came up with this little slice of slang (which I do truly hope will catch on, and spread) while snorkeling at the Great Barrier Reef today. Now, THAT was sweet reef. I feel like I don't have the brain power at the moment to try to assemble the most precisely evocative words with the proper amount of poetry to communicate what a truly unique, beautiful, and awesome experience it was. Instead, I'll chuck some words at you and let you fill in the gaps: amazing, trippy, slightly terrifying, parrot fish, finding Nemo, colorful, sticky intestines, floating, mild panic, wave-slapped, spit, sunblock, giant clam.

I do feel changed by the experience, but that might just be because MY FOREHEAD IS DENTED FROM WHERE THE SNORKELING MASK WAS. Still. Like, visibly and tangibly dented. It's been nearly twelve hours since I've taken off the snorkel mask, and yet my forehead is not only dented, but sports a horizontal red line. Snorkeling at the Great Barrier Reef was a great experience, but I'm less and less sure it was worth permanent facial damage.

Or maybe it was. It's not everyday one is on a boat before 8 a.m., being enthusiastically yelled at by abnormally cheerful young folk, while they shove used and moist apparel in one's face. "Good mornin'! How you goin' today! You ready to get out there and see the reef!" I replied as I thought we were meant to (and really, as the energy of the situation warranted) with a big ol' "WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I was the only one who attempted to match the skippers' joie de vivre, though. The other 30 or so people on the boat just eyed me sleepy-eyed and suspiciously.

As did this gentleman, as I tried (and I suspect failed) to covertly take his picture.

He's not one of the young, chipper chaps and gals in board shorts and polo shirts, but he's still representative in his own way of the type of people this sort of business attracts. This was the guy trying to rent us underwater cameras for the day. Note the blond dreads. Note the beaded bracelets. Note the weathered skin and general resignation trying to pass as relaxation that maybe life didn't turn out quite like he thought it was going to. Dude, whatever. I'm gonna slap on some sunglasses and just be with the fish, man. Be with the freakin' fish.

You might think, it being fa' no'th Queensland and all, that we'd be given a quick lesson about or at least a placard indicating all the dangerous creatures we might encounter while floating alone in the depths of the ocean, and the various injuries those dangerous creatures could inflict. Nope. What we got was this form to sign.

I'm not sure if it's legible, but I'm pointing out two little words on the form there. Those two little words are "WRONGFUL DEATH." As in, I will not hold Cairns Diving Centre (CDC pty ltd) responsible for any of the following blah blah blah blah blah....including WRONGFUL DEATH. Hmm. I'll just go ahead, jump to a few conclusions, and assume that this expedition could get a smidge dangerous. Thanks for the heads up, CDC.

The lecture we did get was about swimming. "Captain Klaus," a prematurely wrinkled man of about 45, took us snorkelers up to the deck, and asked those of us that could swim to raise our hands. "Hmm, I see," he said, surveying us while he paced back and forth. "You can swim." And that's when his voice changed. "You know what? THAT'S THE BIGGEST LIE I'LL HEAR ALL DAY!" He snorted. "You can swim. Where can you swim, in a pool?" he asked derisively. "Well, this isn't a god damn pool! This is the ocean! The ocean! The ocean doesn't care if you can do some pansy-ass doggie paddle in a pool. That won't cut it in the ocean. You better change your attitude RIGHT NOW! I'm looking at all of you, and all I see are liabilities. I consider you all liabilities. You can swim? Please."

Captain Klaus was quite a change from the chipper kids, but I appreciated the contempt in which he seemed to hold us, his paying customers. He then went on to ask us each where we were from, seemingly interested in small talk, but only reeling us in for further humiliation.

"Where are you from?" he asked me.
"Oh, the U.S.," I said.
"And where in the U.S?"
"New York."
"New York..." he paused, and for a moment I thought he was going to say something like, "Oh, I spent some time there," or "That's a nice place." Instead he barked, "That's pretty far from the ocean!" I am not exaggerating when I tell you he had the same exchange with each of us, individually. "Where are you from? Where in England? Manchester? That's pretty far from the ocean!"

And fair enough. The ocean was pretty choppy today, and we were getting tossed around like cliched sexist jokes at a taping of Two and a Half Men. Which is to say, a fair bit. I did have one small moment of panic (fine, among quite a few small moments of panic) when I was headed back to the boat for lunch, having been the last one left out on the seas. After drifting quite far away, lost in my own wondrous underwater world, I started swimming toward the boat and realized a little too late that I might not have left myself enough mental and physical strength to battle the waves. I briefly considered calling for a life ring, but decided no, I'm not that weak. If I have to, I will just sink and die right here near the Great Barrier Reef. It's been a good day, and I've seen some amazing sights, and if I can't make it back to the boat, well, I'm at one with Nature now. I get it. Natural selection. Take me if you have to, Nature. You win this round.

Obviously, I did find the inner strength to flipper my way back to the boat. The question now is, do I have the inner strength to keep writing about today? And, you know, I don't think I do. I'm massaged and patched-up and forehead-dented and happy and exhausted. So I'll leave you here. May your tomorrow be sweet reef.

*If "rock star" luxury means it costs $15 and happens in what's really a glorifed strip mall.

**i.e., if you're not one of the 3 other people that went snorkeling with me today.

Cairns, Day Three: How Come I Don't Have a Boat?

2010-05-12T10:47:00.014-04:00

Okay, Blog-readers. I'm not gonna lie to you. I'm pretty much phonin' this installment in, as I've gotta be up early for snorkeling tomorrow. That's right. Snorkeling! At the Great Barrier Reef! With sea turtles! And dugongs! And starfish! And a sick realization that unless humans can hurry up and get it together, pollution and overfishing are going to ruin all the natural beauty we have left!

Before I head off to dream of clear blue ocean water and a 6-billion-strong, human hand-holding chain set to a backdrop of Peter Cetera's "Glory of Love"*, I will quickly fill you in on today. Today was great.

Cairns, you've shown me what you've got, and you've got a lot.** You've got this weird shade structure in the middle of the Central Business District.

You've got this Indian restaurant pleading desperately for business.

And you've got THE MOST UKES I HAVE EVER SEEN IN ONE PLACE!!

Oh, Music City Cairns, est. 1974, at 55 Sheridan St., Cairns, QLD 4870, Australia - (07) 4051 6826. You are my dream, Music City Cairns, est. 1974, at 55 Sheridan St., Cairns, QLD 4870, Australia - (07) 4051 6826. It was very difficult not to purchase multiple new ukes in you, Music City Cairns, est. 1974, at 55 Sheridan St., Cairns, QLD 4870, Australia - (07) 4051 6826. I only wish more people knew about you, Music City Cairns, est. 1974, at 55 Sheridan St., Cairns, QLD 4870, Australia - (07) 4051 6826.

And then the day just gets better. I head on to lunch at Spoons (46 Aplin St., Cairns, QLD 4870, Australia (07) 4031 1110) and chow down on what to my seagan (a mostly vegan who eats fish), gluten-free, generally sensitive little guts is sheer heaven. This homemade sandwich, stuffed full of goodness:

Yes, I took a picture of my sandwich. Yes, I was dining alone in a cafe. Yes, the people at the table looked at me strangely. Yes, I felt foolish. But what those people don't know is that I am FAMOUS ON THE INTERNET and that MILLIONS OF PEOPLE have since viewed this sandwich, and that those MILLIONS OF PEOPLE have felt-- through the sandwich-viewing experience-- both closer to me, and closer to the common joys that bind us all together as humans on this wonderful and delicate planet. Cue Peter Cetera:

Tonight it's very clear,
As we're both lying here,
There are so many things I waaaaaanna say.
I will always love you,
I will never leave you alooooooooooooone....

What else made today so great? Lunch on lunch, that's what. I went from the cafe directly home to a Comedy BBQ. (It's like a regular BBQ, but with more comedians and, subsequently, more thrown foodstuffs.) This is what I ate:

What's that you spy on my plate there? What's this sensitive little gluten-free seagan eating for second lunch? Could it be a piece of 'roo? A bit o' the ol' 'roo? A little 'roo niblet? It is indeed! I ATE KANGAROO MEAT TODAY! If I had more time, I might reflect on the physical, mental and emotional impact of tasting red meat for the first time in over 15 years, or the complex thought process I used to justify my decision (it has a lot to do with kangaroo being sustainably farmed) but instead, I will simply say: it was pretty delicious. Granted, I ate about a quarter of the little piece you see on my plate, and threw the rest at Sam Simmons, who caught it in his mouth on the first try. A real champ, that Sam.

Next, it was on to the Esplanade, Cairns's waterfront walkway. On the way, I passed this classic, Cairns-style bearded tree:

And this sign:

Because it just wouldn't be a day in fa' no'th Queensland without an imminent attack warning. I like how they've set up the pictures so that the croc looks like it's chasing the swimmer, whose mortal extinction is represented by the red line through his body. I also like that they've given the croc just enough detail to have a truly menancing-looking evil eye. Achtung.

Lastly, I'll leave you with this shot:

And this thought: Why don't I have a boat? Sure, my life is relatively charmed, what with getting to live my personal dream and all, but seriously, where is my boat? I deserve a boat. People have boats. I'm a person. I want a boat. So, it's settled. I'm getting a boat, and on that boat, I'm gonna play one of my many new ukes and eat roo and save the environment from human destruction, all the while listening to Peter Cetera's "Glory of Love." Yeah. That's exactly what I'm going to do. Cairns, thanks for giving me something to strive for.

*Glory of Love video clip.

**This is a slight exaggeration. If ever you are in Cairns, expect to see lots of tourists, lots of tourist-related things (hostels, falafel joints, marijuana t-shirts), and an unusual number of bats.

Day Two, Cairns: Moderate Stinger Risk

2010-05-11T11:51:00.012-04:00

Let me dive right into it. I know you're all wondering what became of Pab "Poontang is the shit" lo.

(Wow. This is where I paused for about 2 minutes, thinking that that sentence could be a really cool start to a novel. (And this is where I paused for about 45 seconds, thinking how much I don't enjoy when the same word repeats itself in a sentence, even when that word makes sense, as in the above "that that" example. (And this is where I paused for about 25 seconds, wondering if my penchant for parenthetical thoughts ever gets annoying. (And this is where I paused for about 12 seconds, deciding that it doesn't.))))

So, Pablo. Sam did indeed bring him on stage, where he was allowed to utter four words only. I'm sure you can imagine what those words were. The folks seated in the Cairns Civic Centre paying upwards of $30 a ticket didn't find the exchange quite as hilarious as we did the night before, but Pablo did indeed have his moment to shine.

Today, a bunch of us piled in the ride and headed off to Palm Cove, a swank little beach town about 25 minutes from downtown Cairns. It was on the way to Palm Cove, when I found myself worrying about whether or not I had enough sunscreen and/or whether or not there would be sufficient shade and/or whether or not I could refill my water bottle and/or whether or not I would want an extra towel so that I'd have one to dry off on and one to lay on the beach with, that I had to admit to myself that I am not, by nature, a laid-back, beach-going type of person. No one has ever accused me of being "easy-going." I've never been leaning back, smoking a joint, listening to The Steve Miller Band and going, "Yeah. I relate to that shit." I don't even own a pair of sunglasses. When it's sunny, what I do is, I take off my regular glasses, and then I squint and occasionally complain.

I'd love to be the gal that just slaps on a tank top and flip-flops down to the shore, body board balancing atop tan and muscular shoulder. But that is not who I am. I only wear tank tops indoors, flip-flops hurt my sensitive widdle toes, I've never body boarded and my shoulders are pale and pokey, like anemic triangles or Kristen Stewart's ears. Years ago, I would have felt like admitting all this was limiting. Today, I feel like it's liberating.

So, here we go: I like the beach, but I am not good at it. I do not enjoy being hot. I do not enjoy getting sunburn. I do not enjoy the feeling of sand in my orifices. What I do enjoy is reading in the shade, and that's what I do at the beach. I could put an ocean sounds CD on in a library and have pretty much the same day.

Palm Cove, though, is lovely. In fact, as this sign attests, it's the cleanest beach in Australia:

Or was, seven years ago in 2003. Here's another sign, graphically detailing the dangers of beach-going in Australia:

"Marine stingers may be present in these waters." "Crocodiles may be present in these waters." Just so you know, beach-goers. See this silhouette of a many-tentacled jellyfish and this silhouette of a sharp-toothed, squinty-eyed crocodile? Well, your imminent death MAY be present in these waters. Severe maiming MAY be in your near future. You can't say you weren't warned.

Oh, and just in case you aren't quite clear on what's happening, here's today's stinger risk:

Moderate. Not negligible, but not outrageous. You know, moderate. Average. Today's stinger risk is moderate. It's adequate. It's fair. There is a fair chance you will get stung by a marine creature. Today. In these waters. It is a risk, moderately.

I'd never heard the term "stinger risk" before, and I like it. I'd like to chop the apostrophe s off that sign, so it would read like a rock club marquee. Today: STINGER RISK. "Stinger Risk? No way! The way they play the nematocysts is so wicked, man."

Oh, and speaking of Wicked, check out this Wicked Camper Van I spotted today:

Inspect Her Gadget! Get it? It's like Inspector Gadget, but kinda sexist. I wonder what other nostalgic cartoon characters they tried to turn into perverts before settling on that one. Flasher Gordon? Scoob her doo? Monchichis? (Obviously, the Monchichis do not need to be altered to sound dirty, combining as they do the sound of both "munch" and "chichis.")

While at the beach, I also saw the whitest two people I have ever seen anywhere.

Of course, I had to pretend to be capturing the picturesque surrounds in order to snap that photo for you. Here I am, claiming mild outrage at Inspect Her Gadget while meanwhile, I'm clickety-clacking away at girls in bikinis on the beach. Well, just another day in the life of bloggin' for DeAnne Smith.

And I'll leave you with a photo of this little guy, who we met on the way to Palm Cove. This is exactly who I want to be if I'm ever reincarnated: the happiest dog in the world.

Goodnight, eyes in space. More tomorrow.

Day One, Cairns: "Poontang is the Shit"

2010-05-10T12:18:00.003-04:00

Greetings from tropical fa' no'th Queensland!

I've decided, internet friends, that this year while on the Melbourne International Comedy Festival Road Show, I will blog daily. "Daily?!" you say. "But we are so used to your sporadic and haphazard tri-monthly blogging schedule. A daily blog will blow our tiny minds!" Well, then, unzip your skulls and lean back in sweet anticipation, readers, because your tiny minds are about to be blown.*

In an effort to be unburdened and carefree, I didn't take my camera into the Cairns CBD (a well-intentioned mistake I will not make twice, much like shaking hands with homeless people), so in lieu** of Cairns photos, here is a grainy picture of me, solemnly swearing to blog daily.

Daily, I say!

So, Cairns. We got in around 5, not that I would totally know, since I seem to have lost my watch this morning. I have some hope that I've absent-mindedly stashed it away or that it's fallen into a bag somewhere, as its disappearance defies logic. Check this out: last night, I was inside my home with my watch on. This morning, my watch was nowhere to be found. I'm afraid I can neither quickly nor succinctly explain to you how disturbing I find this. But I will try my darnedest, which is what this daily blog is all about. I've done a lot of soul-searching in the hours since the lost watch incident, and I think these equations most accurately convey my feelings:

my watch = small attempt at appearing fashionable + sense of control + accomplishment

(I have wrists small enough to warrant unsolicited comments from strangers, so finding a time piece that does not make them and therefore my entire self look ridiculous is no small feat.)

lost watch = reversion to former stark and unadorned nerdiness + chaos x general sadness at growing realization of own mortality

I will say, however, that watching Invictus on the plane helped put the lost watch into perspective. At the end of the day, it is just a lost watch, not, say, 27 years of wrongful imprisonment.

Back to Cairns. First, we ventured into the Night Markets. If you find yourself in Cairns between 4:30 and 11 p.m., and you have a hankering for any of the following:

-novelty t-shirts
-macadamia "sensations"
-opal jewelry
-fried, MSG-laden seafood dishes of indiscriminate origin
-$15 massage
-anything made from kangaroo scrotum

then the Night Markets are for you!

My favorite*** stand in the Night Markets is the "Healthy Gourmet Grill," which proudly serves large tubs of chips (that's french fries to you North Americans), various meats in sauces, battered mystery chunks, corn, and peas. When I asked the girl working if there was any MSG in the food, she replied, "Emesgee? No, sorry. We don't have emesgee." A quick check with the man behind the counter confirmed that there was MSG in everything, including the vegetables. The vegetables! Mmm mmm. Because you know what goes great with corn? Heart palpitations and swollen extremities!

Then, after a quick stop back at the hotel-- actually, no. I'm going to have to take a minute to tell you about the infestation in my room. My room (308, if you wanna stop by with some Raid) is overrun with the smallest ants in existence. Tiny, tiny, tiny ants that are at this very moment crawling in and out of my bag of Goji berries.**** Teeny, eensy weensy ants that I accidentally ingested while eating a handful of Goji berries earlier. Miniscule, nearly microscopic ants that I then ingested out of spite once I realized they were also on the gluten-free coconut raspberry cupcake I brought all the way from Sydney. You may have ruined my Goji berries, impossibly infinitesimal ants, but you will not ruin my cupcake! And guess what? I don't regret one delicious bite. If ever again I am faced with a choice between not eating a cupcake or eating ants, my decision is crystal clear. I almost enjoyed the extra protein. I almost wish I had to make that choice every day. Hear that, you little jerks? Bring it on!

And as long as I'm admitting unsavory character traits, here's something: I watched ten minutes of an episode of iCarly in my room today. Sample dialogue:

Carly's Plucky Blond Friend: Oh my god, he's so hot I wanna bake cookies on him.
Carly: I would eat those cookies.
Canned Laughter: [Canned Laughs.]

But Cairns! We're in Cairns! Okay, so after a quick stop back at the ol' ant pit, we headed back out into the sultry, tropical night.

A member of the tour (who shall remain nameless. We'll call him "Weed") sauntered up to a group of youth (G.O.Y.) and in the fastest street deal I have ever witnessed, scored a certain substance (that shall remain nameless. We'll call it "Dan"). Now, normally I would not consider this transaction particularly blog-worthy, if it weren't for what happened next.

We continued on, and after crossing some sketchy railroad tracks and hacking our way through the bushy median in the road, we made it to our destination, The Green Ant. (Jesus, they're everywhere!) And who was seated there, in the middle of a birthday toast and subsequent slurred rendition of the Happy Birthday song? The G.O.Y! How the G.O.Y. managed to beat us there without us noticing them along the way is as mysterious to me as my lost watch.

[moment of silence]

One of the G.O.Y., Pablo, was celebrating his nineteenth birthday, and insisted on proving this to us by flashing his driver's license.***** He was visibly shocked and upset to learn that our group was "in our 30s." I believe his response was: "WHOA!" So notable was this fact to young Pablo, that it became our introduction. "This is my friend Mike," he said to us, when his friend joined the table. And to Mike, he said, "These guys are 30." No names, just a general ballpark age. We smiled and waved.

Pablo then proceeded to hit us with the inside scoop on Cairns. We should go to a place called The Wool Shed. We should go to a place called Velvet. We should go on a Thursday, especially if we want to get some poontang. Then, Pablo leaned in and conspiratorially whispered, "Poontang is the shit."

Poontang is the shit.

And with that bit of wisdom from a newly-turned-19-year-old, I will leave you for tonight.

Feel free to tingle with anticipation about tomorrow night's installment, in which we will follow up with Pab "Poontang is the shit" lo. See, at some point during the evening, Sam Simmons invited Pablo to get up on stage with him tomorrow, and while some might consider this a half-hearted joking gesture, I think it's going to happen. We'll find out.

Oh, and also, Cairns has gigantic bats.

*This is/was an attempt at a dirty joke, i.e., having your mind "blown." Get it? I'm not sure I do.

**I went through every possible combination of the last three letters of that word before finally settling on the correct one.

***Sometimes I pretend things are my favorite when they are, in fact, highly disappointing to me. It's just a little game I play with myself, and the reason I keep watching Woody Allen movies.

****You can understand that anyone who travels with their own bag of Goji berries would be crushed (crushed!) to learn that a place called Healthy Gourmet Grill is, in fact, none of those things.

*****If anyone out there is interested in counterfeiting, you might want to start with Queensland licenses. They look really easy to fake. Just saying.

Totally Hip & Totally Skip!

2009-12-12T15:05:00.008-05:00

Just like the popular glossy magazines, I've compiled a "What's Hot and What's Not" list, based on recent trends in my life.

DeAnne Smith's December: Totally Hip & Totally Skip!

Totally Hip! A sleeping-bag-like winter coat
Totally Skip! The appearance of a normal, human-shaped body

Totally Hip! Long underwear
Totally Skip! Remaining sweat-free in the metro

Totally Hip! Mittens
Totally Skip! Use of hands

Totally Hip! Hooded sweatshirt
Totally Skip! That other hooded sweatshirt

Totally Hip! Eating anchovies on toast
Totally Skip! Getting within 3 feet of humans with a sense
of smell

Totally Hip! Playing the ukulele
Totally Skip! Feeling in the tips of my fingers

Totally Hip! Spending money on ukulele-related paraphernalia
Totally Skip! Paying rent on time

Totally Hip! Watching season 5 of The Sopranos on DVD
Totally Skip! Meeting writing deadlines

Totally Hip! Questioning own sense of humor
Totally Skip! Carefree and innocent love of laughter

Totally Hip! Late nights
Totally Skip! More than 1 1/2 hours of sunlight a day

Totally Hip! Making Christmas presents
Totally Skip! Like, money and its capitalist trappings, man!

Totally Hip! Constant unnecessary worry about if my hair looks weird or not
Totally Skip! Whatever the opposite of that would be (Because I have no idea!)

Totally Hip! Learning about the Christian Quiverfull movement
Totally Skip! Sleeping peacefully at night

And that's how December's breaking down in DeAnne land! Stay hip, kids!

An Interview with DeAnne Smith

2009-11-30T13:43:00.006-05:00

Talented Montreal-based stand up DeAnne Smith has many faces: comedian, comic, joke-teller. We caught up with the charming and quick-witted DeAnne Smith on this snowy Monday afternoon to find out just what makes this award-winning international comedian tick.

Q: Hey, so what's going on in the wacky world of DeAnne Smith?

A: I'm kind of busy right now.

Q: So, eating breakfast and wasting time on the internet is what DeAnne Smith calls busy!

A: I just wasn't ready for an--

Q: Sounds fantastic! What projects has DeAnne Smith got coming up?

A: Um...today? I don't know. I'm going to buy a tomato later this afternoon. I might get some laundry done.

Q: Wow! It's non-stop over there at the DeAnne Smith factory! Tell us, where do you find the DeAnnenergy?

A: The DeAnnenergy?

Q: Yes, DeAnnenergy! The energy that powers the awesomeness that is DeAnne Smith!

A: ...

Q: Where, DeAnne Smith, do you find it?!

A: I'm not sure I understand the question.

Q: Ha ha! Hilarious! Always a joker, DeAnne Smith!

A: ...

Q: Describe DeAnne Smith in 5 words or less.

A: Um, I...

Q: Quit it! You're killing me! But seriously, why do you think you're so amazing at comedy?

A: Um, that's very nice of you to say. I mean, amazing is a strong--

Q: Ha ha, I get it! DeAnne Smith won't give up the trade secrets that easily!

A: ...

Q: Do you think the fact that you're-- how can I say this?-- a "lady-loving-lady" has anything to do with how awesome you are at all things comedic?

A: I don't really think sexuality--

Q: So, DeAnne Smith is asexual! Breaking news here on the blog! Is it hard being asexual, DeAnne Smith? Are you afraid people will classify you as just another one of those amoebas or snails?

A: Are snails asexual?

Q: DeAnne Smith is an asexual snail! Sensational!

A: I really think snails--

Q: Some snails are self-fertile hermaphrodites! So, when can your fans expect your new DVD, "DeAnne Smith: Self-Fertile Hermaphroditic Snail," to hit stores?

A: I don't have--

Q: I see! Always keep them guessing! Hey, let's do one of the quick word associations you're so famous for!

A: I'm not--

Q: DeAnne!

A: Yes?

Q: That's the word to associate! Go! DeAnne!

A: Smith?

Q: Great! Stand!

A: Up?

Q: Correct! Self!

A: Serving?

Q: No! Wrong! Fertile! Self-fertile!

A: ...

Q: Many marine snails are free-spawners! Male and female snails shed their gametes into the seawater, and fertilization occurs in the water column!

A: ...

Q: Freshwater or terrestrial snails are almost always hermaphrodites! Individuals can mate with any other member of its species! Some hermaphrodites can even use their own sperm to fertilize their own eggs! That's what we in the business call a self-fertile hermaphroditic snail!

A: ...

Q: ...

A: Is hermaphroditic a word?

Q: Spell check seems to think so! Why doesn't DeAnne Smith trust spell check?

A: It just doesn't seem like a word.

Q: Does your innate distrust makes you a better comedian?

A: I don't have innate--

Q: So, you're saying that nothing about DeAnne Smith is innate! What's it like then, DeAnne Smith, being a construct, a fabrication? How do you live with yourself lying to your fans?

A: I don't lie to--

Q: Spectacular! DeAnne Smith is a faithless, deceitful, asexual mollusk! Why don't you believe in God, DeAnne Smith?

A: God?

Q: The supernatural creator and overseer of the universe! Also known as Yah-weh, Allah, and He-Man! The impossibly large, invisibly bearded man responsible for tuberculosis and your comedy career and Jesus!

A: He-Man?

Q: The one-liners just keep on a'comin' here with DeAnne Smith! Unfortunately, we're going to have to wrap this up, but before we go, let me ask you something. Does my hair look weird? Does it look weird right now?

A: ...

Q: DeAnne Smith, everybody! Outstanding!

America's Next Top Model: Only Slightly Better Than Chewing Glass

2009-09-17T01:35:00.006-04:00

On a rare night in, I decided to watch America's Next Top Model. This is exactly what happened.

7:57 p.m.
My girlfriend, HoneyButterMelt*, wrist-deep in salmon patty preparations, asks me to turn on the TV. A woman wearing very heavy eye shadow and a shirt that looks more like the idea of a tank top than an actual tank top cries and says she "loves people."

I am grateful that I have never seen an episode of So You Think You Can Dance Canada.

8:00 p.m.
America's Next Top Model begins. My excitement swiftly turns to mild disgust as a brief recap of last week's episode shows the models' childhood photos used as inspiration for creepy sexual pictures of them as adults. One of the models is in a clown costume, trying to look sexy. In an instant, everything I have ever thought about clowns, or sex, is not only challenged but metaphorically trampled upon. I fear my future enjoyment of both is severely compromised.

8:01 p.m.
Tyra struts and air-kisses her way through the intro music as we are introduced to the girls. Although I am immediately drawn to the bald Bianca, I keep this to myself, for fear that it makes me not only predictable but super gay.

still 8:01 p.m.
Commercials. Apparently, Aaron Eckhart and Jennifer Aniston are starring in an upcoming movie, along with that horribly grating "You Found Me" song. I try to imagine a pairing even more bland (Kevin Costner and Jennifer Love Hewitt? White rice and Pete Wentz? Saltines and Ben Affleck?) and find that I can not.

8:04 p.m.
A commercial announcer asks, "Do you think you have what it takes to get into the Coors Light Mystery Mansion?" I have to admit that if what it takes involves a desire to unravel the "mystery," the ability to stomach Coors Light, or an interest in actually getting into the Coors Light Mystery Mansion, I do not.

8:05 p.m.
ANTM is back.

I am introduced to Rachel, former Walmart cashier. It takes me a few seconds to decide, of all the bright-eyed woodland creatures she reminds me of, that she looks most like a fawn. The criteria are 1.), They have similar spacing of the eyes and 2.) They both look similarly incapable of succeeding at Boggle.

Forget bald Bianca. The Fawn is my favorite and the one I am rooting for.

The girls screech and run toward some kind of vault. The name "Tyra" is intoned. I have no idea what just happened.

8:06 p.m.
The girls meet with modeling agency bigwigs.

A girl with a severe limp attempts to catwalk.

One of the men inquires, "How much pain are you in doing that?" Limpy responds, "A lot."

8:08 p.m.
A girl who has a lazy eye walks into the room and is berated for having a lazy eye. She leaves.

The Fawn appears. She is asked to sing. Her mind goes blank, although this is difficult to tell, as her eyes remain precisely as big and shiny and vacant as they were before. "In this industry, you've got to be able to perform on the spot!" one man chirps, before sending her away.

The next girl walks in. "Five three?!" one of the men exclaims. "You are really pushing the boundaries." He says this spitefully, as if her height is a personal insult to him, as if the numbers 5 and 3 have recently tried to sell him a sub-par Caramel Macchiato and he holds her responsible.

8:10 p.m.
Bianca is on screen, briefly. The edits are made so quickly that I am starting to feel at risk of an epileptic seizure. I almost have a chance to form a thought about the fact that TV is not made for anyone with a reasonably healthy attention span, when it is announced that they are going to kick someone off the show. Right now.

The girls' hands fly up to cover their gaping mouths almost in unison. "This is real," one of the men says. He says this with rehearsed conviction.

8:11 p.m.
Commercials. I am called to the kitchen to help HoneyButterMelt.

I express my concern that I haven't yet seen the crazy Jesus-loving girl I heard so much about from last week's episode. HoneyButterMelt tells me that the crazy Jesus-loving girl is gone. Although I try not to be, I am visibly disappointed.

"There's another one that's kinda bonkers," HoneyButterMelt says, by way of consolation.

I decide the only way to get through the show is to wholeheartedly and 100% support The Fawn.

8:15 p.m.
One of the girls (it may have been The Fawn) explains how shocking this experience is. "I think I just like...everything just kinda like...what."

The Fawn is told to go home.

"I was expecting someone to pop out and go, 'Just kidding!'" She says, tearily adding, "Opportunities like this don't really come for girls like me." I picture her returning to Walmart, slipping on a blue vest, and resigning herself to a life of minimum wage and Big Grab bags of Lay's BBQ chips.

One of the men says, "The fact of the matter is this is a very harsh industry and we want to represent someone who has some kind of personality there."

I hate the men, and this show.

8:16 p.m.
The girls begin trash-talking The Fawn. The girl with the lazy eye is relieved The Fawn is gone. "Yeah I have this issue with my eye but I feel really, really good."

I decide that Lazy Eye is my least favorite. I hope she loses.

There is more screeching and running toward the vault.

A photographer named Jean-Michel appears, and screams at the girls. He claims he would rather "chew glass" than photograph them.

I wonder if Jean-Michel can imagine what chewing glass would actually be like.

Tyra bounds in dressed as a classic "nerd" and begins modeling while Jean-Michel yells at her. She takes her glasses off, flips her trench coat inside out and transforms into some kind of modeling super hero. She and Jean-Michel have a back and forth in what has got to be the most awkward role play I have ever seen.

I decide I would rather chew glass than watch Tyra Banks "act." I imagine what chewing glass would actually be like, and stick by my decision.

Super Tyra poses, while referencing the "smize." It becomes clear that "to smize" is to smile with one's eyes.

Tyra addresses the girls as the superhero Super Smize, and gets them to work on their posture. She asks them to think of something nice. "It could be a hot fudge sundae," she says. "It could be your boyfriend" (pause) "kissing your" (pause) "...neck."

I scan the room for glass.

8:19 p.m.
Tyra instructs one of the girls to "Give me the sound that the cat makes but continue smiling with your eyes. Now do it inside of your head." I consider the possibility that Tyra may be a Dadaist genius.

I look at HoneyButterMelt, who is now seated next to me on the couch. She is attempting to smize.

8:20 p.m.
One of the girls reveals that her secret to smizing is thinking about pizza. "Turkey pepperoni or real pork swine?" Tyra asks.

While I am struggling to understand the string of disconnected nouns that stream from Tyra Banks's mouth, HoneyButterMelt asks, "Can I smize?" She squints and purses her lips. She looks as if she has just eaten a lemon. I don't say this. Instead, I say, "Yes." HoneyButterMelt smiles.

8:21 p.m.
The girls are in weird, fencing-like body suits that leave only their eyes visible. They are going to have a smize off.

"You know who would have been excellent at smizing? The Fawn!" As I'm saying this, I realize I don't actually believe it.

I consider chewing glass as self-inflicted punishment for actually using the word "smize" aloud, in a sentence.

8:22 p.m.
Tyra reminds the girls that "Smiling with your eyes is not just squinting." I feel superior, having already figured this out.

Bianca beats Lazy Eye in the smize off. Big surprise.

8:23 p.m.
I remember that salmon patties are on their way. I am getting hungry.

8:25 p.m.
Bianca is in a black bikini standing over a dishwasher arguing with the girls about whether the dishes are clean or not. Her bald head looks less sexy than menacing. I don't like her.

8:26 p.m.
Commercials. I steal a small potato from the pot of potatoes HoneyButterMelt is mashing on the stove. I eat it over the sink, pretending I'm a poor Irishman from the late 1800s and this is all I have for dinner. In keeping with the fantasy, I think, "That was a right gud wee puh-tay-toe." Even in my head, I can't do a proper Irish accent. I head back to the couch feeling slightly defeated, but less hungry.

8:29 p.m.
The girls go to Santa Anita park, where they meet a man who looks like a photo negative of a regular human. He tries, unsuccessfully, to inject enthusiasm into his voice as he explains that for the next task, "You'll be up on the horse...nude."

The girls cheer and jump.

"You're going to take everything you learned from Supersmize and show us that you truly know how to smile with your eyes," he says.

A topless girl in a long, blond wig gets on top of a horse, elbows a jockey in the back, and smizes.

8:32 p.m.
Lazy Eye approaches.

"You look drunk," the photographer tells her.

"I have a condition of the eye," she replies.

Her horse freaks out.

8:33 p.m.
Photo Negative says of a model, "She gave me Italian Vogue...literally." I am certain he doesn't know what literally means.

8:34 p.m.
The word "smize" is spoken upwards of fifteen times.

Laura comes out and says in a southern accent, "I just like nudity."

She is my new favorite.

8:36 p.m.
Limpy is forced to wear a soft cast boot during the photo shoot. She is angry. It shows.

Photo Negative yells, "Smize! Don't forget!"

8:37 p.m.
Back in the house, there is a confrontation between Limpy and one of the girls. Someone in the room sings out "Awk-ward!"

8:38 p.m.
Commercials. HoneyButterMelt calls from the kitchen. "Sorry dinner is so late. I wish I was there eating and bitching with you!" I am happy to be in a solid relationship, one built on food and mutual judgment.

I stare at the commercials which, honestly, I barely understand. Someone asks me to, "Imagine the strength and flexibility of bamboo in a hairspray." I can not. I wonder if I really am out of touch with the rest of humanity, or if everyone feels this way while watching TV.

As if in answer to my question, a commercial for Dane Cook's upcoming concert at the Bell Center comes on. I decide I am out of touch with humanity.

8:41 p.m.
It is announced that the girl who wins this challenge will get a modeling contract with the bitchy men we saw earlier. I think how handy it is for them that this whole episode has been a commercial for their agency.

8:43 p.m.
The girls' horse pictures are judged by the panel, which includes Lauren Conrad (of whom I am only vaguely aware) and a black man with womanly lips, and sleeves that look as if they are eating his shoulders.

He critiques one of the photos by neighing like a horse, and then saying that the photo is lacking the particular horse noise that he just made.

8:44 p.m.
Lauren Conrad says of Lazy Eye's photo, "Your eyes almost look uneven."

"No, I have uneven eyes," she answers.

I wonder why she is even in the competition, but I start to admire her perseverance.

I ask HoneyButterMelt how to spell "perseverance." We sound it out.

"Oh! Not per-ser-ver-ance," I say, "but per-se-ver-ance."

"Gets you every time," HoneyButterMelt says.

"Actually, that's the first time it ever got me," I reply defensively.

I wonder if this onset of spelling difficulty is karmic payback for me making a wordnerd crack about Boggle earlier.

8:45 p.m.
Tyra tells Bianca that there is too much tension in her mouth. "Your mouth looks like 'Who farted?'"

Everyone agrees that Laura's photo is great. I am happy my new favorite is doing well.

8:46 p.m.
"Because it's so strange, it's not hooch," Puffy Sleeves says. I have no idea what he's referring to or what this means.

8:47 p.m.
The concept of "a melancholy smize" is introduced.

8:48 p.m.
Commercials. I wonder if we find out right away who will be eliminated, or if we get to see the worst three girls humiliated first.

I hear HoneyButterMelt banging spoons in the kitchen. I'm starving.

I search Craigslist Montreal's furniture section for a floor lamp.

8:52 p.m.
The judges deliberate. "She's not smizing." "She is giving us an angry smize." "She can smize."

Tyra literally (literally, Photo Negative) smizes a guy right out of his chair.

8:54 p.m.
A steaming plate of salmon patties, mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy, and arugula salad is placed before me. I have the best girlfriend in the universe. I am smug.

Tyra hands photos to the girls. I am pretty sure this means they continue to the next round.

8:56 p.m.
Bianca and Limpy clasp hands and step forward to dramatic music.

The problem is, as Tyra sees it, that Bianca complains and Limpy gave up on her shoot. Desperate for meaning, I decide to make this the show's moral. Be cheerful. Don't give up. Smize though your heart is aching.

Suddenly, Bianca wins.

"But Bianca looked like a man!" I protest. I am surprised, in the wake of The Fawn's demise, that I have any feelings at all about the outcome of the show.

"Who's going home?" HoneyButterMelt asks. "The limpy or the bald one?"

"Limpy," I answer. The girls cry.

A picture of all the girls dressed in rope flashes on the screen.

The preview reel for next week's episode shows a child strutting like a diva, and an altercation over Bianca's eyebrows.

Commercials. The show is over. I would feel empty inside, but for my salmon patties.

*not her real name

Punky Brewster or, Refrigerators Can Kill You!

2009-09-09T15:01:00.008-04:00

DISCLAIMER: I will, in this blog about Soleil Moon Frye, known best for her portrayal of TV's young and plucky Punky Brewster, refrain from mentioning gigantomastia (extreme growth of the breasts). If, my friends, you're looking for cheap jokes about gigantomastia (bilateral benign progressive breast enlargement), look elsewhere. If you'd like to see images of gigantomastia (I recommend it), you have come to the wrong blog. Even if you'd simply like a medical definition of gigantomastia (seriously, it's like EXTREME growth), this blog will be naught but a disappointment to you. While easily exploited for both humor and shock value, gigantomastia (the largest recorded weight per breast was 67 lbs!) will not be mentioned even once in this blog. If gigantomastia (Google it) is what you're after, I suggest you move along. Thank you.

Here we go.

Soleil Moon Frye ranks up there with Nancy Reagan and Garbage Pail Kids as oddities from the '80s I have not thought of in a very, very long time. She came back into my life and consciousness much the same way the depressing theatrical works of Sarah Kane or the benefits of omega-rich flax seed oil or use of the word "perv" as a verb ("I was totally perving on that girl") came into my life: thanks to my girlfriend.

My girlfriend, who hereafter will be referred to as HoneyButterMelt,* has recently developed a weakness for celebrity Twittering. (Is that even the correct way to say that? Celebrity tweeting? Celebritweet? Mind-numbingly boring psuedo-newsfeeds?) In any case, it was a short-lived hobby of HoneyButterMelt's, but a relatively intense one. In the time she was into it, HoneyButterMelt learned everything there is to know about Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson (either a lot more or a lot less than you would imagine, depending on whether you have your own life), which led to her Nicole Richie's page, which led her to Sara Gilbert's page, which led her to Soleil Moon Frye. (Really, I'm not going to mention gigantomastia, so quit waiting for it.)

Soleil Moon Frye, it turns out, has gone from this:

To this:

Back to this:

Horrifying, isn't it? But not nearly as horrifying as the video I will link you to at the end of this blog (and no, it's not a video about gigantomastia).

Apparently, the only thing of consequence Soleil Moon Frye has really done in her life is portray TV's young and plucky Punky Brewster. Punky Brewster was great, but unless I'm drunk on tequila in a seedy strip club in Chicago, I really do not want to see a 33-year-old woman dressed up as her, flashing me a thumbs up. Excuse me while I shudder.

I got to thinking about the show, and I'm disturbed by how many details I remember. The main set up, as I recall, was that Punky Brewster (having been left in a shopping center by her mom) was a resourceful and courageous orphan who, along with her faithful dog Brandon, befriended Henry and taught the old codger to love again. I credit the show Punky Brewster with teaching me three important lessons I've carried in my heart throughout my life. 1. Quick wit and determination can get a girl out of a jam. 2. Friendship is the most valuable thing in life. and 3. MY MOM COULD ABANDON ME IN A SHOPPING CENTER.

Way to shatter my innocence, Punky Brewster. That little backstory detail, mentioned perhaps once in the first episode, stuck with me like the bittersweet memory of Samantha Ronson's loving touch sticks with Lindsay Lohan (which is to say, deeply). If Punky Brewster's mom could leave her in a store, my mom could leave me in a store. Why the heck wouldn't she? I was cute, sure, but not nearly as freckled or adorable or full of pep as Punky Brewster. Compared to the awesome Punky Brewster, I was totally expendable. Thanks to that show, my mom never had to tell me twice that we were leaving a store. I would be up and away from the Cabbage Patch doll display faster than Samantha Ronson can delete Lindsay Lohan's increasingly desperate tweet-attempts to win back her heart (which is to say, as hastily as possible).

A friend, who hereafter will be referred to as Diane Smithers**, suggested that as far as backstories go, the whole mom-leaving-you-in-a-shopping-center thing wasn't a horrible one. Diane Smithers said that the show's writers probably thought it was better than other possible explanations for why a kid would be orphaned. Imagine the brainstorming session: "How about Punky's mom is a crystal meth addict? Maybe her parents died in a fire? Her dad killed her mom and is now in jail? What if Punky's Chinese and her country has a one-child policy and seeing that her culture traditionally values sons over daughters, her parents felt the social pressure to produce a boy and abandoned her on a rocky hillside?" "...Or, maybe, her mom just left her in a shopping center?" "Yeah, that's good."

The other notable thing about Punky Brewster was that all the episodes had a message. Does anyone remember when the kids were playing hide-and-seek outside and one of them decided to hop into an abandoned refrigerator? Holy Macanole, that kid almost died! Inside a refrigerator! Unlike Lindsay Lohan getting the message when Samantha Ronson does not reply to her exclamation-point-heavy tweets (which is to say, not at all), I got the refrigerators-are-death-traps message loud and clear. Thereafter I eyed our refrigerator at home knowingly, with suspicion and contempt. You won't kill me, chilled place where we keep our produce!

Remember the episode where the illiterate girl who lied about being able to read had to face her ignorance when her little brother drank some cleaning solution and she couldn't read the poison control instructions on the back of the bottle? Or when all the picked-on kids ganged up against the school bully, Moose? I'm telling you, Punky always had a message. "Refrigerators will kill you. Punky Power!" "Don't lie about if you can read. Punky Power!" "Try not to drink stuff under the sink. Punky Power!" "Don't be a jerk to other kids. Punky Power!"

I'm tempted to go on, both about Punky Brewster (really, the amount of trivia I've retained about that show is troubling; I could write a thesis on the bleak theme song alone***) and the sad and shattered lovelorn LiLo, but I'll get to Soleil Moon Frye's video (which is definitely not about gigantomastia). Be warned, it is extremely disturbing. But be heartened, it is also extremely affirming. It will probably make you feel really, really good about the choices you've made in your life, seeing as those choices-- whatever they were-- did not lead you to make the following video. Enjoy. HoneyButterMelt, this video is for you.

*Not her real name, but a psuedonym designed to protect Sarah's anonymity.

**Not her real name, but a psuedonym designed to protect my ego and reputation from the fact that the "friend" I was talking to was me.

***"Maybe the world is blind (do do do do do do), or just a little unkind, Don't know...Seems you can't be sure (do do do do do do), of anything anymore...Oh no..." Those are the opening lines to a kids' show!
Well, they can't say they didn't prep us for a world in which moms shuck off their kids in shopping centers and refrigerators stalk and murder 8-year-olds.

Melbourne Int'l Comedy Festival Road Show: Western Australia

2009-07-20T16:05:00.069-04:00

Friends, readers, strangers, and stalker (you know who you are, Rachel Templeton):

Hello! It's been quite a while since I've updated the blog. About, oh, ten months. A lot has happened in that time. A human fetus could have gestated, been born, and learned to blink in response to bright lights in that amount of time (you know who you are, newborn babies). A negligent container ship pilot could have completed a prison sentence for his role in a spill of more than 53,000 gallons of oil into the San Francisco Bay in that amount of time (you know who you are, Captain John Cota). A person could have gone through a mild seasonal depression, written a new one hour show, traveled to Australia for four months, eaten obscene amounts of Barramundi, and returned to Montreal in that amount of time (you know who you are, DeAnne Smith). It's a fair amount of time, is my point.

Thank you for your patience, friends, readers, strangers, and stalker. In exchange, I present you with a detailed account of my tour of Western Australia.

Well, mostly detailed. The thing is, I'm writing this from Montreal, sipping a limonade avec gingembre, where I sit in a cafe surrounded by sexy geeks staring at laptop screens, while accordian-heavy and increasingly disturbed French music plays in the background. The tour is a blur to me now. The ho- and motels I stayed in blend, in my memory, into one giant, beige carpeted room with grossly overpriced Toblerones on display, passive aggressive "We Care About the Earth! Do You?" signs in the bathroom, and a television continually playing the preview for "He's Just Not That Into You." I've decided to ascribe my hazy memory to the number of time zones I've crossed in the past few weeks and not, say, to potential lead poisoning I picked up in Port Pirie.

Here we go.

Margaret River (pop. 4,415) was the first stop on the tour, and where this:

and this:

greeted us backstage.

That's right, a half-eaten package of hand-labeled "GINGER" cookies, and a box of tap shoes. Oh, Margaret River, you have a way with performers! How did you know that my ideal way to "get in the zone" before a show is to chow down on stale, suspiciously-packaged sweets and strap on my dancin'shoes? Tippity-tap, tippity-tap, mmm mmm mmm!

The coolest part about the show in Margaret River was that we performed to a sold-out house of just over 400 people. It's not often that I get to be seen by 10% of the town I'm in. Or that .25% of that 10% would serve me breakfast the next day, simultaneously boosting and deflating my ego with the sentence, "I loved your stuff last night, but I'm not sure the crowd really got it." Uh, thanks?

Next, we drove to Bunbury, a town charming in its directness. The Bunbury library is unmistakably that:

And the fact that the town has just one Thai restaurant is not only acknowledged, but celebrated:

It's the "Choose Respect" signs that, while straightforward at first, become perplexing:

Sure, it's fine message for a town to promote. What unsettles me, though, is that the town feels it needs to tell its inhabitants to respect each other, and then reminds them what respect means. "Respect is to treat with care and consideration." I saw this sign on a doctor's office, a place I'd assume where people were always treated with care and consideration. What was happening in Bunbury's doctors' offices to prompt this campaign?

"Listen, tubso, you got a blood-pump so choked with grease you're gonna be dead by September if you don't lay off the sausage rolls. Now, scram!"

"Yeah, yeah, babies cry, it's what they do. Come back when that shit-machine's blue or old enough to tell me what the god damn problem is. Now, scram!"

"Mysterious lump? I got two of 'em, lady, and I call 'em my ballsack. I got bigger fish to fry. Now, scram!"

Maybe that's why the town's most prominent sculpture is a giant, disapproving head:

I'm not sure if Choosing Respect was what the woman who came up to me after the show and said, "You were great! I love your lesbian vagina...(insert uncomfortable, five second pause)...names" was doing or not. I will believe she was.

Only the second stop on the tour, Bunbury taught me a life lesson. Eating corn flakes out of a teacup with a tiny spoon in a '70s-style motel room off the main highway while watching a movie starring that girl from "My Girl," I realized that the touring life may not be all glitz and glamour. Thank you, Bunbury.

On to Geraldton! But first, this sign on the side of the road:

Did I say the touring life wasn't all glitz and glamour? I take it back. I can't imagine anything more glamorous than indulging in a cappuccino and/or exotic tea, as advertised on a light-up sign on the side of the road. Simple, elegant, understated, it is probably my favorite photo of the tour.

I have to admit, I loved Geraldton. While I was there, I breakfasted at Go Health Lunch Bar (named as if poorly translated from a non-Romance language, but nonetheless full of delicious treats), strolled art galleries, learned about the Batavia shipwreck at the museum, ate homemade ice cream, and didn't get carried away by a rip tide at the beach (our stage manager was not so lucky). So enamored was I with the town and its unexplained ship-ka-bob

that the ominous Christian propaganda on the front of the Salvation Army store didn't even phase me.

Where will I spend Eternity? I may just stay in Geraldton. Thanks for asking!

My love of Geraldton could have clouded my perception of Port Hedland. Or maybe it was the fact that I had to get up at 4:30 a.m. to board a flight to Port Hedland that clouded my perception of Port Hedland. Or maybe it was the omnipresent layer of red dirt on everything in Port Hedland that clouded my perception of Port Hedland. Or maybe it was the fact that Port Hedland has two taverns, one named "Last Chance Tavern" and one that holds the world's record for the most stabbings in one night, that clouded my perception of Port Hedland. Or maybe it was the fact that, despite the blistering heat, one could not go swimming in the beautiful, blue ocean surrounding Port Hedland for fear of being stung, bitten, or otherwise killed that clouded my perception of Port Hedland. Or maybe it was the hazy cloud of industrial-strength Raid that I slept under after being terrorized by Port Hedland's massive cockroaches in my hotel room that quite literally clouded my perception of Port Hedland.

I might have been inclined to call Port Hedland a hot, salt-minin' pit of despair if it weren't for this:

What you may not be able to see is the "No couples, grubs, or drunks" statement at the bottom of the room for rent ad in the left hand corner. Port Hedland, you've won me back! A town where you can get your freak on at a doctors and nurses party, get your recreational skippers ticket whenever you feel like it ("Give us a call and tell us when you want to do it") and get a room for a mere $275 a week (provided you're not in a relationship, on the sauce, or a beetle larva), is a town that's all right by me!

On the drive to Karratha, we stopped at Whim Creek. We weren't planning on it, but we were suddenly struck by a capricious and eccentric idea to do so. (See what I did there, vocab lovers?) Whim Creek, according to Whim Creek, is a must:

Remember that red dirt I was telling you about in Port Hedland? Well, it's everywhere in Western Australia. So overtaken by the crimson dust, people can't even be bothered to write "Wash me" in it.

Because that wouldn't be funny enough. What's a hoot, though, is labeling handicap bathrooms like this:

Wheelies! Leave it to blunt, fun-lovin' Aussies to give their differently-abled brethren a nickname and some speed lines! This sign makes being in a wheelchair look so awesome, I almost wish I didn't have full physical control of my lower limbs.

Despite full physical control of my lower limbs, I didn't get out much in Karratha. As far as I could tell, the main highlights of the town were its shopping center and its ability to attract cyclones. When we asked the hotel receptionist what there was to do in town, she shrugged her shoulders and stared. I'll remember Karratha for two things: the moist burp by which I was heckled, and the amount of dust in the theater's green room.

Next stop: Perth! We were in Perth for a week, which I mostly spent window shopping and taunting people with real jobs. My favorite past time in Perth became eating fancy lunches at places frequented by business people, and then staring at them with open mockery when they had to leave to return to work. "Nice life, suckers! I'll be here eating salmon tartar and thumbing through the entertainment section of the paper while you sit in front of a computer screen in a fluorescently lit office cubicle, weakening your vision, but still clearly able to see your dreams wither and die."

Most of Perth was hiding behind plastic construction fences, on its way to being built up or knocked down. In the midst of all the construction, I never one saw one person working.

The best store in Perth has got to be this one:

I know they have Aboriginal artefacts, but d'ya reckon they sell didgeridoos?

Esperance was our second-to-last stop on the Western Australia leg of the tour. It's also the place where things tend to fall out of the sky, like wild birds poisoned by lead, and pieces of the Skylab space station. ("It's a bird! It's a plane! It's...well, kind of both of those things. But much more foreboding.")

We were there briefly, so my main memory is of the motel room. And what a motel room it was! It had three beds, and a bathroom bigger than my Montreal apartment. The bathroom actually had two chairs in it, should one get winded walking from one end to the other and need to rest. I hadn't felt lonely on the entire tour until, in this Esperance motel room, I realized I could have had four other people and a rugby team in need of a shower traveling with me. And there I was, small, alone, cold, sleeping in a scarf and beanie.

In an effort to warm up and alleviate my loneliness, I thought about maybe guttin' and cleanin' some fish. Luckily, I saw this sign posted near the door:

Ah well. No fish foolery for me.

On the drive to Kalgoorlie, we passed Norseman

and its cave of activity. Activities include erecting ladders, smoking, and scaring children.

Then, there was what looked like the worst-ever place to picnic, in Widgiemooltha:

First of all, yes, Widgiemooltha is the real name of a real place. It's no Salmon Gums or Mount Remarkable, but I like it.

Secondly, I may not be great with spatial relativity (any of the bruises I've incurred by simply trying to move from one room to another in my apartment could serve as proof), but it looks to me as though the festive yellow concrete stumps surrounding the table would not allow one seated on them to actually reach the table. "I'll just scootch this forwa...oh, nevermind. Pass the cole slaw?"

Kalgoorlie is amazing. It's a historic mining town, and home of the Super Pit, an open-cut gold mine about four kilometers long, one and a half kilometers wide and 500 metres deep. Standing at the edge of the pit, listening to the faraway rumble of gigantic trucks below, I was so mesmerized, it was easy to forget I was witnessing complete environmental degradation. But hey, if it's gonna look so cool! I would pay almost any price for gold now, after seeing the sheer amount of drudgery and toil it takes to get that stuff out of the earth.

I could post a picture of the Super Pit. Or I could tell you how the mine will be used up by 2017. (Sidenote: if you're ever performing in Kalgoorlie, don't mention it to the people in the crowd, all of whom are somehow financially dependent on the mine, 'cause they're a bit touchy about it.) Or I could describe the mechanized toilet stall in the middle of town that played an instrumental version of "What the World Needs Now is Love" but I won't do any of those things. I will leave you with this:

There you have it, friends, readers, strangers, and stalker! That's my experience of Western Australia. I know it may have been a lot to get through, so here's handy reference, likening each city the tour played in to the Australian celebrity it most resembles.

Margaret River = Olivia Newton-John.
Cute, and full of wine.

Bunbury = 1930s race horse Phar Lap.
Straightforwardly doing its thing. Then allegedly killed by gangsters.

Geraldton = Crowded House.
Awesome.

Port Hedland = AC/DC.
Way too heavy and one-note at first, but won me over with its unrelenting commitment to being itself.

Karratha = Natalie Bassingthwaighte
Not bad, but essentially, there's nothing there.

Perth = Nicole Kidman.
Nice to look at, but under constant construction.

Esperance = Air Supply.
Made me feel cold, lonely, and as though I should skin fish.

Kalgoorlie = Heath Ledger.
Beautiful, awsome, and ultimately doomed.

Stay tuned for the South Australia leg, coming soon!

Wow, That's Heelarious!

2008-09-12T23:28:00.005-04:00

Okay, full disclosure: I ran across the Heelarious website a few months ago. I was too busy (full disclosure: eating waffles and being lazy) to sink my bloggin' claws into it. But now, thanks to some time off (full disclosure: 3/4 of a "special" cookie at a friend's lake house), I believe I've stopped seething long enough to form some coherent sentences (full disclosure: I'm still seething, and I may or may not be entirely coherent). I'm ready to take Heelarious on. Oh, I'm ready.

Heelarious, for those of you who haven't heard, makes high heels for babies. No, you haven't just ingested 3/4 of a "special" cookie1. You've actually read that correctly: high heels for babies. Or, as the website says, "her first high heels." At least three of those words are so wrong they're worthy of their own post-doctoral dissertation on sexism, gender inequality, and the misogynist fashion industry, but this is just a humble little blog. Plus, I can't seem to settle on a title for such a dissertation. "'Her First High Heels': Why Passively Allowing Sarah Jessica Parker to Rise to Power Will be Modern Western Society's Ultimate Downfall?" or "'Her First High Heels': Wow, How Dumb?"

Obviously, I'm biased. Let's get another opinion. This is what Diane Sawyer, 62nd on Forbes' "The World's 100 Most Powerful Women" list, has to say about the high heels: “They’re squishy! They’re to dress your baby up when they’re going to fancy events, so they can have their own high heels.”

Ignoring, for a moment, the tragic fact that waking up in the wee hours to host "Good Morning America" has apparently left Diane Sawyer one sleep-deprived neuron away from communicating exclusively through exclamations and a simple series of handclaps ("Squishy! Baby dress up fancy! Clap, clap, clap!"), let's take a closer look at her statement. Lest baby's first high heels seem, at best, ridiculously frivolous, and at worst, dangerously objectifying, Diane Sawyer thinks they're totally legit. You know, for when babies go to fancy events.

Okay, Diane Sawyer, I'll bite. Let's say, for some reason, a new mom has to go to a fancy event (and we'll define "fancy event," as something slightly more elaborate and dignified than discount day at the local grocery store). Let's say, for some reason, this new mom has to bring her baby to said fancy event. Who knows, maybe the nanny got deported or the new mom couldn't find a proper date and has a really poor sense of appropriate boundaries. Maybe, at this said fancy event, the new mom wants to parade around the bouncing, joyous reason why her nipples are leaking and she hasn't slept more than four hours at a stretch in months. Okay, Diane Sawyer, I'll play. The baby is attending her first fancy event.

It makes perfect sense then, Diane Sawyer, that the baby would need her own high heels. We all know how important it is for babies to feel like they have their own debilitating footwear, just like Mommy. It's especially important when babies are at that tender age from 0 to 6 months, when they're viciously eyeing everyone else's belongings (provided the belonging is within 18 inches of their face, where they can actually focus on it), wondering why they don't have their own, tinier, cuter versions of things. "Hey, wait a minute," a 1-month-old baby may miraculously have the cognitive development to think. "How come that big lady over there, the one they keep calling 'Mom,' has those things on her feet and I don't? Aren't I a person, too? Don't I have feelings? Wow, it's like I'm not even at this fancy event! It's like no one even respects me! In about two seconds, I'm going to start wailing and see how long it takes for them to figure out that I'm upset not because I'm tired or hungry or have a wet diaper but because I don't have my own high heels. I want my own high heels! WAAAAAAAAH!"

Correct me if I'm wrong (and I'm not, so don't), but aren't the only real reasons for wearing high heels aesthetic? There's nothing about high heels that doesn't say "sexualized object." (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) It's just a fact; I'm not even particularly anti-high heel. (Full disclosure: I feel about high heels the same way I feel about straight marriage and eating soft cheeses. I'm not against them in general, but I am against them for me. I mean, if someone out there wants to be in a straight marriage, wear high heels, and dig into Camembert, I respect their decisions. I don't understand those decisions and I probably secretly judge those decisions, but I respect them.) Call me uptight (but I'm not, so don't), but I don't think there's anything all that hilarious about dressing babies up in high heels. I guess some people-- I'm looking at you, Diane Sawyer-- would find a baby in high heels funny, so I'll step outside myself for a moment and try to imagine what that would be like.

Ha, that baby's in little high heels! That's so funny! Ha! She's wearing shoes specifically designed to make her legs look longer and slimmer! How comical! How zany! How incredibly wacky! That baby is wearing shoes that, if they were on an adult woman, would decrease her range of leg motion! Hysterical! Not since I saw the "I'm too sexy for my diaper" onesie have I been this amused! High heels on a baby! Ha ha! Oh my god, I'm laughing so hard my ribs hurt! My face aches! A baby in high heels! I can't breathe! I just peed my pants! I'm about to pass out! Ha ha ha ha! Hee hee hee! Ha hee hoodly hoodle! Heh! Hah! Heah! Tee hee hee! A baby in high heels! Guffaw!

You might think I'm being too harsh on Heelarious (but I'm not, so don't). What takes the concept completely over the top for me is that the shoes come in leopard print. What's next? Baby's first thong? Baby's first frosted lipstick? Baby's first chlamydia screening? Nothing good or pure or innocent comes in leopard print. Nothing. Try to think of even one thing (but don't, because you can't). Trust me, there's not a more inherently slutty print in the whole of the animal kingdom. You see someone in zebra print? They're saying, "Hey, I've spent some time in Africa and I've read Hemingway." You see someone in tiger print? That says, "Watch out! I like to fancy myself a bit wild!" You see someone in leopard print? All that's saying is, "Jello shots? Bring 'em the hell on! Don't mind my cold sore!"

The website says that the product is "not intended to harm children in any way." Well, thank goodness. It's official: being used as mommy's little sexualized accessory doesn't harm kids at all. At least, it doesn't harm children in the way that high heels do. I mean, it's not a hammertoe kind of harm. It's not a degenerative-changes-in-the-knee-joint kind of harm. It's not a bunion-and-blister kind of harm. It's just a bunion-and-blister-on-the-soul kind of harm.

The website assures us that the products were designed with "safety and comfort as their main concern." Hmm. I'd counter that "safety and comfort" couldn't have been the "main concern." I mean, I'm sure making money in a consumer-driven society was the main concern. High up on the list of concerns was probably marketing to egocentric, middle-to-upper class parents. Somewhere on the list of the concerns was making sure the product release coincided with the Sex and The City premiere. If "safety and comfort" (full disclosure: I love using people's exact words against them) were the "main concern" (full disclosure: I am also a huge fan of quotation marks), the Heelarious website would feature babies in bare feet.

Wouldn't that be "heelarious," if someone recognized the ridiculous range of pointless baby accessories and told new parents it was okay to chill the heck out? If someone said, "Sure, yeah, now you're parents. And guess what? You will be a little less cool and hip and trendy than you used to be, but that's okay. After you're done with the sleep deprivation, you can keep working on your personality. The (hilarious!) way you dress your baby won't have to be your only form of self-expression." That's the website I would like to see. (Full disclosure: I suspect it's out there, but I'm too lazy to search for it now. I have some waffles to eat.) Oh, and the other website I'd like to see is the one where Diane Sawyer sticks her bare feet into a tank of flesh-eating fish. ("Oooo! Tiny fish kisses! Clap, clap, clap!") Luckily for me, that website is right here: http://jezebel.com/5027735/diane-sawyer-fearlessly-faces-flesh+eating-fish

1Actually, I don't know, maybe you have just ingested 3/4 of a "special" cookie. In which case, I apologize for making assumptions about you and your ability to alter your mind while reading about the increasingly disturbing trend of baby clothes marketed to appeal to adults' sense of humor or irony or ironic humor. (Oh, yeah, I'm sure your baby listens to the Ramones. You are both so hip. I'm very impressed.) Sorry, did that sarcastic parenthetical aside to hypothetical parents throw you off? Are you even following this anymore? Maybe you should go eat some waffles and be lazy; you can read this another time.

It is my Gladness: DeAnne Victory Winner

2008-07-07T12:01:00.004-04:00

I won! Joy not write me back for I am victory winner of scam apartment game! Easy to see for all I am too trust wordly and honest and good person Christian to mess with DeAnne Andrea Dean Anderson!

Joy was getting a little tedious, and I'm glad our correspondence is over. What surprised me, though, was how many of you guys have had run-ins with the Bradley-Derrick crew in various cities. Do they really end up scamming people into giving them money? This is what I say we do. Email joy.derrick1@gmail.com or johnnyderrick@ymail.com with the subject line "interested in your apartment" and then put this smiling kitten in the body of the email:

Please play! And if you do, leave a comment so we know how many folks did it.

And now I send you thank you best regards. It is my sadness to say goodbye to last one chapter. Best luck for apartment search to everyone sincere and kindness!

It is my Gladness: PROFILE ACCEPTED

2008-06-30T11:39:00.010-04:00

My profile was accpeted! This time I decided to up the ante a little. Here's my response to Joy's message:

Regards Joy,

Oh thanks you for writing back to me. Yes, my very willingness in the flat! I turst in you also I would not want to experience what I experience last year with finding flat and then flat haunted with ghost of sea creatures, i.e. very noisy octopus ghost always making earl grey tea when I am trying sleep! Also starfish look cute and starry and chewable and innocint but guess what Joy Derrick? Are total asshole ghosts! Are very inconsiderite always thinking are BETTER THAN YOU because living in spirit realm and have pyloric stomach BUT guess what JoyDerrick they ARE NOT better. Good Lord Almighty Everlasting God made everyone special so that's what I tell asshole starfish ghosts (telepathicly because they do not have ears) anyway well would not want to experience that again. Also the plankton.

I would like to move into flat July 11.

Also what is your address please for sending payment?

Lord bless you and your family and flat, all incl, and Juice Machine. Pls send me address ASAP for fast payment am very eager to move into new place!!!

Best welcome regards, DeAnne

And then I attached this photo:

Here's Joy's original message. It's a bit lengthy, but I know you're interested in following this saga, so it's here for your perusal. Highlights include the fact that the daughter was involved in approving my application and that the house was "destroyed" last year. Um, so, where will I be moving into exactly?

Hi DeAnne ,

Thanks you very much for your reply, I can see your willingness in this flat. I want you to know that i'm satisfied with your profile and also believe l can trust in you because l will not like to experience what l experieced from my last tenant again.I will like to know the exact date you will like to move into the flat,l showed your profile to my husband and daughter, They said they are ok with it.l want you to know that we can let you stay in my flat till the period of time you wish to.

I want you to know that the rent fee is among the flat utilities all included, so you can use them anytime but make you take proper care of my properties.We will come and pay you a visit after you have moved into my home to see how you are maintaining it,I will be receiving the first months deposit payment from you via Western Union because l think it reliable,secured and fast,l wish you best of luck in your work, from your profile l can see that you are responsible and a hard working person may the almighty Lord lead you in what ever you wish to do.l see no reason why l should collect damages deposit since you have promise that you will take proper care of my home l think we're ok.

Amenities
..........................................
# Bedroom : 1
# Bathroom : 1
# Extra Toilet : 1
# Extra Guest Room: 1
# Sofa Bed : 1
# Bed Linen

Accommodation Features
...................................................
Wood Floor :
Heater :
Central Heating :
Equiped Kitchen :
Tv: Cable/Satellite TV:
Video/Stereo:
Internet :
Air Conditioning:
¡E Full Kitchen
¡E Refrigerator:
¡E Garage/Car park
¡E pets allowed.

Kitchen Features
...................... ...........
Washing machine:
Juice Machine :
Iron :
Toaster:
Oven :
Dishwasher :
Coffee Maker :
Microwave :
Refrigerator:
Stove:

As soon as the first 2 month has been confirmed by me via western union,l will go ahead and commence on how the flat keys/documents will be delivered to you via DHL courier service on next day delivery and it will be delivered to the address you provided in your application form.Let me hear back from you as soon as possible so that l can go arrange for the delivery of the keys/documents.

Once again l'm giving you this flat on trust and do not dissapoint me because l dont want our house to be destroyed again, if you wish to move in with your own properties,we still have one extra room that is empty so you can easily put our own things that you think you dont need in there.

Here are the contents that will be delivered to you via DHL courier service.

1) Entrance and the rooms Keys
2)Paper/Permanent Flat form(Containing your reference details)
3)The Flat documented file.
4)Payment Receipts.
5)Full address and description of the flat.

My husband will like to talk to you,you can call him as soon as you get this mail his number is 0112348083710680 or +2348083710680

Get back to me via email if you will need me to send you the information which you will use to make the deposit payment via western union to my husband secretary in new jersey.

Thanks and God bless you...

Best Regards

Joy.

So, what's the next move? Will Joy send me their address? What, exactly, happened between DeAnne Andrea Dean Anderson and the ghost-plankton? Check back in for updates!

It is my Gladness: God bless you more as you do this

2008-06-24T19:07:00.007-04:00

Oh, Joy! She wrote back! I won't paste the whole message here, but you can be assured that she "appreciates [my] expression." And there was this:

Please we are giving you all this transaction is based on Trust & Honesty and again I want you to stick to your words,We are putting everything into Gods hand,so please do not let us down in this property of ours and God bless you more as you do this.

Luckily, I know for a fact that God finds this hilarious. Here's my response:

Regards to Joy (and daghter!)

Thank you much for immeidate response I am very much Eager To move into beautiful apartment! I have good feeling with you and Rev Johnny. you are right, all is based with Trust & Honesty and standing on words.

I am kind harded and very honest person. You can have faith on me. Pls tell me when we can meet, when I can move into flat!!

Thank you welcome regards,
DeAnne

ps. application form keep private and confidential very important to me! Thank u

*********RENT APPLICATION FORM*******
(Private & Confidential)

1)Your Full Name

DeAnne Andrea Dean Anderson

2)Present Full Address(where you reside now) & Phone Number to Reach You

No present address, God does not help me find place, need to move in immediate!

514-676-3452

3)Age

43 and 3 months.

4)Are you married?

No. Great sadness.

5)Sex

Sometimes, but not too loud for neighbors don't worry.

6)How many people will be living in the house?

1 Just me. (Sometimes I hear voices, but they are not occupying physical space!)

7)Do you have a pet?

No. Not a pet because not trained and not nice like pet but there is a dog that sometimes lives with me. He is name Richard.

8)Do you have a car?

NO!!

9)What is your religion?

I am Christian, much daily prayer time, favorite Matthew 7:12!!!

10)Occupation?

I am periodicals librarian, love very much to acquire, develop collection, organize, preserve, and catalogue periodicals. $54,700/yr income.

I also am spices librarian (unpaid, at home work) and things-found-in-other-people-recycling-bins librarian (unpaid, at home work). Again i love with all things to A.D.O.P.C: acquire, develop, organize, preserve, catalogue.

11) How Many Month Deposit ??? 1 or 2

2. Is 3 Okay?

12) When are you ready to Move In ?

Soon Immediate for no house now.

13) When are u planning to leave the flat ?

1 year at least. Or when the voices tell me. whoever comes first.

Then, with no explanation, I included this picture:

Oh, and for those of you not up on your scripture, Matthew 7:12 reads, "So whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them, for this is the Law and the Prophets."

When will Joy ask me for a deposit? How did Richard the dog come to occasionally co-habitate with what we can assume is an order-obsessed DeAnne Andrea Dean Anderson? Why does God only have one hand? Check back in for answers!

It is my Gladness, part 2

2008-06-24T12:56:00.004-04:00

It's on!

I wrote to "Joy" (for that message, which is brief, see the comments on the original "It is my gladness..." post) and received this very blue message back:

Hi DeAnne ,

Thanks for the email and also yes,My husband in respect of Rev Johnny Bradley who owned the place and also it is situated In 3450 Drummond ,Montréal,QC H3G 1Y1 Canada and also want you to know that it was due to my husband transfer that makes us to leave the place and also want to give it out for rent and looking for a responsible person that can take very good care of it as we are not after the money for the rent but want it to be clean at the time and the person which is reliable and responsible that will rent it to take it as if it were its own.So for now,Am here in United States right now in our new flat and also with the keys/document of the flat we are willing to rent to you.

We try to look for an agent that we can give this document before we left but could not see and we are as well as don't want our flat to be used any how in our present that is why we took it along to us here and as you know that,my husband over in the West Africa for a Mission of God,so I hope you will promise us to take very good care of the home.So get back to me on how you could take care of our home or perhaps experience you have in renting home.

Hope you are okay with the price of $622 Per Month for the place with hydro,heat laundry facilities,air condition, internet connection and so on 750 Square Feet, I look forward to hearing from you as soon as possible so that i can forward you an application to fill out and discuss on how to get the flat for rent,also are you ready to rent it now or when?you can view our flat picture at the attach file as you can see the pictures of the place are beautiful that is why we need a maintenance and up keep of our flat.

Thanks so much
Joy Bradley.

Attached were pictures of a huge and gorgeous flat from various angles, and this picture of Joy and her daughter:

What I love most is the joyless expression on their faces. I can only imagine the inner dialogue goes something like this:

Joy Jr.: "Mommy! Look! I am sniffing this flower to mask the reek of unhappiness and disappointment that emanates from your body!"

Joy: "I hate you."

This was my response:

Regards Joy Bradley-Derrick,

3450 Drummond in Montreal H3G 1Y1 is lovely neighborhood so happy to live there! I am responsible and trustworldy to treat flat as my own mantenence.

I understand you take document and keys to u.s. and your husband honorable kind Rev Johnny Bradley Derrick loves the lord and wants to make West Africa a nation of lord lovers also.

I have a lot of experience in renting home. I take care of home with washing, brooming, etc. and stay vigilant to not let home flood or catch fire or have many mice or cover in mud slide, etc.

The price of $622 sounds good to me for place. Please forward me application. I am ready to rent immediate.

I attach picture of me so you know me a little.

Thank you regards,
DeAnne

And then--is this unethical?--I searched for a photo on the internet and attached this:

Who wouldn't want to rent to that smiling face? Why does Rev Johnny Bradley Derrick have three first names? Will Joy write back? For answers to these questions and many more, stay tuned!

It is my gladness to moreso Now introduce the kind and honest Rev Johnny Bradley!

2008-06-23T09:23:00.004-04:00

Total score.

That's how I feel upon finding pieces of bubble wrap to gleefully pop (seriously, how good is that?), upon finding gluten-free sweet treats to gleefully shove down my gullet (shout out to my Crohn's-inflicted brethren), and, of course, upon finding scam emails in my inbox to which I can gleefully respond (see the Nanny Square entries).

So, I've been looking for apartments on Craigslist. That's pretty much all you need to know to enjoy this most recent exchange. You probably don't need to know that I've also been trolling the personals section, shocked, amazed and I must admit intrigued by people who describe the woman they're looking for as "having little to no gag reflex" and then go on to say, " I am fireman, and you could do much worse ladies, I can promise you that!" Well, hello, dreamboat.

But back on track. I responded to an apartment listing that sounded a little too good to be true. Sadly, when things sound too good to be true, they usually are. (What? Someone who's looking for a person with little to no gag reflex? That's totally me! I'm totally gonna respon....oh, wait. He's a fireman. Sigh. I can't stand the thought of such a wonderful, special, and eloquent someone who I would no doubt totally fall for endangering his life like that! I just can't risk getting hurt. Not again. Not this time. I knew it was too good to be true! No, no, don't mind me. My absent gag reflex and I will just be crouching in this darkened corner for a while, weeping.)

Here's what I sent the guy:

Hi,

I'm really interested in your apartment for rent and I'd like to see it as soon as possible. Are you available to show it on Sunday, June 22?

Thanks,
DeAnne
[And then my phone number. Which I flatter myself to think would be unwise to reproduce here, with so many readers gazing at this space expectantly, waiting for any opportunity to gain access into my thrilling private life. Have I mentioned that I troll personal ads for kicks? Well, hello, dreamboat.]

Here's what I received, about 24 hours later:

Thanks for your email and it is my gladness to hearing from you.My name is Rev Johnny Bradley the owner of the house you are making enquiry of...Actually I resided in the house with my family,such as my wife and my only daugther before and presently we had packed due to my transfer from my working place and now situated in united states and presently my house is still available for rent including the utilities like hydro/heat drywasher and security and bills,Everything in the flat is well fully furnised.

Moreso Now,I went for a crusade in West Africa and i will like you to get in touch with my wife in united states for more discussion as She is with the keys and the document to the flat.Pls i want you to note that,I am a kind and honest man and also i spent alot on my property that i want to give you for rent,so i will solicit for your absolute mentenance of this house and want you to treat it as your own,is that taken,it is not the money the main problem but want you to keep it tidy all the time so that i will be glad to see it neat when i came for a check up.i do that once in a while.I also want you to let me have trust in you as I always stand on my word.

Send my wife Joy an Immediate message, on ( joy.derrick1@gmail.com )and she will attends to you better on how to proceed

Thanks and you are welcome
Regards
Johnny Bradley

Total score! I love it all, from the alliteration of "Johnny and Joy" to the way he seems to be having a level one, English-as-a-second-language conversation with himself in "Thanks and you are welcome" to the fact that he so casually sneaks in: "...when i came for a check up.i do that once in a while.I also..." Pardon me? You do that once in a while? Oh, okay. I guess it's no big deal, since you didn't include any spaces around that sentence. I look forward to your visits, then. In fact, when you came for a check up, I'll probably greet you with a, "Well, hello, dreamboat."

I'm hoping to keep this correspondence going for a while. Note my expert ability to overlook his instructions to write to Joy Derrick, in the hopes that he'll feel compelled to write back:

Thanks you Rev Johnny for your quick and thoughtful responds to my inquiry. I am pleased gladly to know the drywasher is included in the flat fully furnised and that bills are included.

I curiously inquire your crusade at West Africa. Do you carry a swords? What is the name of your horse? Pls more details to me from Africa crusade, my interest is great. Anywayso good luck to you. Victory to conquest pagans!

I see trust fully you are a kind and honest man. I also want you to kind note that, i, take property for rent to treat as my own for my absolute mentenance. i am a very tidy and neat person.i always stand on my word, too. have trust in me Rev. Johnny.

how can we proceed for keys and property agreement? pls let me know I am very eager to move into flat take care properly.

You are welcome,

DeAnne

Will Rev Johnny respond? How's progress on the West African crusade? What the heck is a drywasher? Answers in the next installment of "It is my gladness!" (*fingers crossed*)

WTF: Robot Teddy Bears

2008-06-15T16:11:00.007-04:00

You know how you're just living your life, running from one place to the next, eating canned mackerels over the sink or googling the exes of your exes (or whatever it is that you do), when you're hit with information so incongruous with what you know to be good and right and logical in this world that you stop dead, dropping the canned mackerels or the obsessive/neurotic train of thought that inspires you to virtually check out and subsequently measure yourself and your sense of worth against the people in the past of the people in your past, and you say to yourself WTF? And you actually say, "W.T.F.," not "What the fuck?" which shames the former English Literature major in you and makes you question whether or not you're still living your real life or some abbreviated and flattened version of your life to be later uploaded on Facebook or condensed into a three-line text message and you at least take consolation in the fact that Facebook hasn't yet come up with an eating-stuff-in-cans-over-the-sink application or a who's-googling-people-it's-actually-kind-of-creepy-they're-even-thinking-about application because if it does, you'll be all over that shit like a six-month growth of barnacles on the SS Timewaster? You know that feeling? Who's with me?

I had that feeling recently when I saw Navirobo, a robot teddy bear designed to function as a navigation device. This plush, button-eyed manifestation of WTF is, let me say it again, a robot teddy bear, that from it's place on your dashboard, uses its jointed arms and neck to gesture while providing spoken directions. It can point you toward your destination or point out a turn you just missed. Let us skip over, for the moment, how dangerously distracting it is to have a talking robot teddy bear flailing around on your dashboard, screeching commands and/or mockery at you ("You missed that left! Tee hee!") while you're trying to control a two-ton, moving hunk of machinery.

There's more. Robo-teddy is equipped with sensors that detect reckless driving. If the driver suddenly slams on the brakes, Robo-teddy exclaims, "Watch out!" He also houses an alcohol detection sensor in his neck. If Robo-teddy gets a whiff of the ol' funny juice, he passive-aggressively inquires, "You haven't been drinking, have you?"

Who could possibly want this in their lives? I'm not a particularly hot-headed driver (calling people "sewage-filled, slimy-holed slotwads" when they fail to indicate a left turn in a timely manner is totally normal, right?) but I can easily imagine myself punching Robo-teddy square in his self-satisfied, made-in-China muzzle. Check it out, Ted. If I've slammed on the brakes of my automobile, I've successfully assessed and responded to a potential hazard. Case closed. I may even be a bit shaken up about it, depending on what near-disaster prompted me to slam on those brakes in the first place. (Did a toddler dash in front of the car? Did a tree branch snap off into the road? Was I over enthusiastically lip-synching and making up seated dance moves to "Bleeding Love?") I certainly don't need Can't-Even-Reach-the-Pedals Ted over here to pipe up with a pious "Watch out!" You're not helping, you're just commentating, you no-license-having, fuzz-faced sack of smugness.

Let's say it's a serious situation. A robot teddy bear yelling "Watch out!" at me is not the last thing I need to hear before I enter a vegetative state. The last thing I need to hear before I enter a vegetative state is probably something along the lines of, "Don't worry, you'll still get simple joy from sunshine and ice cream." Why don't the geniuses behind Robo-teddy do something useful and embed that recording, preferably voiced by Morgan Freeman, in every airbag?

And how helpful is the alcohol detection? (Not to mention the fact that you have to pretty much make out with its neck in order for it to detect anything. Check out the video: http://www.engadget.com/2008/06/05/video-fujitsus-navirobot-smells-beer-tells-you-where-to-find/.) Call me a crazy, canned-mackerel-eating neurotic, but I doubt people who are prone to boozing and cruising are the same breed of folks who are going to install a teddy in their car. Perhaps I'm underestimating the purchasing power of the redneck, law-breaking teddy bear lover market.

"You haven't been drinking, have you?" Assuming you're not too drunk to follow that twistedly indirect question ("No, Robo-teddy, I haven't not been not drinking at all!"), if you're still planning on driving home, you're suddenly put in the very surreal position of having to LIE TO A TEDDY BEAR. That's the true indication of your alcohol problem right there. (Checklist: Do you drink more than four nights a week? Do you drink to "get ready" for social occasions? Has your drinking ever caused you to lie to a teddy bear?) And what's Robo-teddy really going to do if you crank up the engine and start weaving your way home, giggle and try to sell you fabric softener?

I can't tell you how disturbing I find the fact that this thing exists. All this time, I thought teddy bears were designed to provide quiet comfort to children as they bounced their way back and forth between Mommy's house and Daddy's under-furnished apartment that always smells like burnt hog dogs. I thought teddy bears were made to serve as collector's items for sexless, middle-aged women from the American Mid-west who use "rouge" and are the sole reason manufacturers of pink sweatshirts with pictures of kittens on them are still in business. I had no idea teddy bears have been waiting to become robotized and slowly take control of our lives, one vehicle at a time.

Clare & Brenda

2008-04-30T07:42:00.005-04:00

Hi guys. When I promised to update this blog regularly, I lied. Let's get that out of the way first. So, yes. I am a liar. My pants are on fire. I have already hung them on the telephone wire, in violation of multiple city ordinances. Okay? Can we just move on?

Good. Because the thing that snapped me out of my writing hibernation, in addition to the prospect of mixed metaphors, was this little gem I found written on the back of a postcard, tucked into a book in a used bookstore in Melbourne:

Dear Clare,

Thank you very much for the chance to read this. It's quite inclusive, but the overall effect is of wonderful complexity, rather than indiscriminateness. Amy Witting is especially interesting and of course I love Gillian's style. The Ken Inglis piece is helpful, as I expected. He's so knowledgeable-- I've seen him add so much to seminars.

I loved the Penguin Summer Stories. Thank you. And I hear that A Century of Story has the most remarkable design. I'm looking forward to it.

Love,
Brenda.

"Who cares about someone else's forgotten postcard?" I can hear you grumbling. (That is, if I flatter myself to believe that 1.) someone's reading this, 2.) someone cares enough to have feelings about it, and 3.) someone would then vocalize those feelings in the form of a grumbly inquiry.) But don't you hear it, too? No, not the sound of your own grumbling (it's lovely that you care), but the subtext screaming beneath those well-chosen words! Screaming, I tell you! There's layer 1, of course, but I find layer 2 even more interesting. Here it is, as I understand it:

Dear Clare,
1. Dear Clare
2. My darling Clare, sun and moon to me,

Thank you very much for the chance to read this.
1. Thank you for giving me the excuse to write you.
2. I love you.

It's quite inclusive, but the overall effect is of wonderful complexity, rather than indiscriminateness.
1. I know and make use of many big words, some that contain both suffixes and prefixes. Are you impressed?
2. I ache to show you my wonderful complexity.

Amy Witting is especially interesting and of course I love Gillian's style.
1. I've read very carefully. Or, at least, I give praise to suggest that I have. Impressed?
2. I've always been a woman-loving woman.

The Ken Inglis piece is helpful, as I expected.
1. I'm very familiar with the work of Inglis. Seriously, how impressed are you?
2. I'm not, however, averse to men; I'm not a stereotype, Clare.

He's so knowledgeable-- I've seen him add so much to seminars.
1. Like I said, me and Ingly go way back. Impressive, is it not?
2. I do, however, attend seminars. Some stereotypes are true, Clare.

I loved the Penguin Summer Stories.
1. I even know who published this. Impressed much?
2. Please let me touch you.

Thank you.
1. I am delighted to have had this opportunity to impress you.
2. My fingertips quiver with anticipation at the mere suggestion of your smooth, buttery skin.

And I hear that A Century of Story has the most remarkable design.
1. I'm in the know about other books as well. Welcome to Impressiveville! Population: You!
2. My vagina is opening like a slow-motion rose blossom.

I'm looking forward to it.
1. I'm going to tell you about that book as well. Get ready to be impressed, my little friend.
2. You are my sacred, only, truest true love.

Love,
Brenda.
1. Love, Brenda.
2. I must anchor my name with punctuation mark, my darling, because I am adrift in the sweet, salty, tumultuous sea of Clare.

Lest you guys think I'm being imaginative and fanciful (Oh, how I would love for someone to accuse me of being fanciful! And then slap me lightly on the cheek with a hand-stitched, goat leather glove!), all of this was written in rich black ink on a black-and-white postcard featuring, what? Well-dressed old ladies riding camels. Don't make me spell out the subtext on that, you perverts.

Personal Highlights of 2007

2008-01-06T22:05:00.000-05:00

Okay, there's really only one. Sure, I got into Just for Laughs this year, making it possible for my parents to see me perform at an internationally acclaimed comedy festival (Who's an "accident" now, suckers?). Sure, I found true love. (At least I think it's true love; she has the password to my gmail account.) Yes, I debuted on television, garnering fans from as far afield as England and Ottawa. Yes, I made some great friends, with whom I shared holidays and fun nights and poutine-induced indigestion. Indeed, I traveled the southern U.S. of A. with the Dykes of Hazard Comedy Tour, learning way more than I wanted to know about Louisiana. (In the state of Louisiana, same-sex marriages are banned but marriages between cousins are a-okay!) Yes, I grasped the tiny fingers of more than a few tykes, helping them discover both the joy of upright mobility and the tragedy of taking a coffee table to the face. Any of these moments could have been the highlight of 2007, but one moment stands out for me in particular, one very private and personal moment: the day Jodie Foster came out of the closet.

On December 12, 2007, after fiercely guarding her private life for a decade and a half, Jodie Foster finally admitted what we've all known for a long time: she hasn't been in a really kick-ass movie since Silence of the Lambs. I mean, Contact, Panic Room and Flightplan were decent, but Maverick? Really? Anytime Mel Gibson is cast as a "wisecracking gambler," it's going to go from smug to worse. Jodie, Jodie, Jodie. You should have known better. In December, while receiving an award at the Women in Entertainment Power 100 breakfast in L.A., Jodie thanked "my beautiful Cydney" in her acceptance speech.

Jodie didn't actually come right out and say she was gay, but inferences can be made. With a name like "Cydney," the beautiful girl in question is one of three things:

1. A sexy cyborg built by a skinny, Pakistani geek at M.I.T.
2. A spoiled, Upper East Side 2-year-old on her way to a mommy-and-me hot yoga class.
3. A lesbian life partner.

I wager the latter, mostly because I can't see how a spoiled, Upper East Side 2-year-old or a cyborg could have helped Jodie Foster make it onto the Entertainment Power 100 list. That's the kind of milestone one needs some serious homo lovin' to achieve. Or at least some serious life-partnering. While Jodie was busy making movies, someone had to order the imported, Swedish, moose-milk cheese. Someone had to make sure the $750,000 Human Rights Campaign donation cleared. Someone had to schedule the Dead Sea mineral salt scrub spa treatment appointments and send Anne Sweeney a silk-wrapped, diamond-encrusted, organic mango basket. Someone had to polish the 14th century platinum gravy ladle.

Fine. Obviously, I have no idea what Jodie and Cydney's personal life looks like. I'm basing it on lives I've seen, but with more dolla dolla bills thrown into the mix. I also have no idea what dolla dolla bills look like, but I'm basing them on things I've seen thrown at boobs in rap videos.

So, how did lesbians react to the news? Some wept. Some celebrated. Some were like, "Whatevs. When's L-Word season 5 starting? That trans one is hot." I squealed with glee and then felt retroactively vindicated for 17% of my masturbatory fantasies since 1990.

Like many a budding lesbo, I knew Foster was gay before I knew I was gay. Heck, I knew Foster was gay before I even knew what gay WAS. How else can one explain the fact that I spent the whole summer I was 15-turning-16 renting every Jodie Foster movie ever made? I just knew. I knew. There was something kindred in the twinkle in her eye, the way she moved her mouth, the fact that she always looked uncomfortable in a period-piece dress. (Let this be my second and final reference to the film Maverick.) I even saw Bugsy Malone, an all-child gangster musical, in which Jodie plays Tallulah, the creepily flirtatious lead singer of Fat Sam's speakeasy. Lest you skip over the details of that previous sentence, which I will admit is jam-packed with information, let me recap. All-Child. Gangster. Musical. Those are three concepts you don't want to see mixed up in a movie any more than you'd want to see a movie sold as, say, an All-female Plumber Drama. Actually, wait a sec. I would see that. Jodie Foster, Judi Dench, and that trans one from the L-Word starring in an All-female Plumber Drama. Welcome to the other 83% of my masturbatory fantasies from now on.

Many people are criticizing Jodie for waiting so long to come out, but I'm not among them. Because of my careful viewing, I know that she actually came out during the filming of Nell. The thing is, everyone on the set assumed she was practicing the nonsense known as "Nellspeak." Watch for it. Every time Nell looks like an angel with spatial reasoning issues and a low I.Q., cooing "chick-a-bay" over and over, that's actually Foster trying desperately to communicate, "I am gay!" Chick-a-bay: I am gay. Chick-a-wee: I love pussy; I seriously do. No, seriously, I really, really do. I honestly and seriously really do. I love pussy. Seriously.

Apparently Foster met her partner on the set of Sommersby, which didn't surprise me at all. I knew it! I could sense their lesbian love blossoming; that's why I watched that movie eleven times. Or, wait. No. I watched that movie eleven times because Jodie wore her hair in long braids. It's all coming back to me now. Hell yeah, those braids. I challenge you to find any other hairstyle that's as cozy and down home and yet, at the same time, so sexily indicative of finger dexterity. You can't! Unless you count when people shave complex zigzags into the sides of their heads, but I, for one, am not generally attracted to 15-and-a-half-year-old boys. Unless I've mistaken them for lesbians. (Note to lesbians and teenage boys: stop wearing wife-beaters and Converse! You're confusing me.)

Jodie finally admitting that she's batting for Team Chick-a-wee was the absolute highlight of 2007 for me. Suspecting she was and yet unable to confirm it, I haven't been able to relax and enjoy any of her movies, at least in the way they were intended to be enjoyed. While Jodie's on screen, I can't help but whisper lewd comments like, "You trying to make contact? I'll show you where you can make contact. In my pants." Or: "You designed the flight plan? Well, I've got a plan for you to look into. In my pants." The Brave One was difficult to get through in this fashion, though. Expressions like, "You wanna see bloodshed? I've got some bloodshed. In my pants," and "Hey, I'll show you a murderous vigilante. In my pants," don't have as sexy a ring to them.

2007 will always be, for me, the year in which I achieved all of my life-until-now's major goals. I passionately pursued my life's calling, I expanded my capacity to love and be loved, and I found out, for sure, that Jodie Foster is a total, raging dyke. In fact, 2007 was so wonderful that it's given me high hopes for 2008. May this be the year in which I make a living doing one-woman shows, I continue to cultivate romantic and platonic love on a deep and intimate level, and Lisa Simpson grows up, turns real, comes out and marries me. Here's to 2008!

Sweet Japanese Girl

2007-11-18T14:19:00.000-05:00

Despite having been steeped in mildly to moderate misogynistic comedy club culture for the past three years, a shred of my former feminist self remains. I was worried there for a minute, when I found myself completely relating to the headliner I worked with last weekend. When, three years ago, I would have found his observations predictable and even sad, a cause for him to reflect upon his relationship to women and perhaps even his relationship to his own sense of sexual shame, last weekend I was listening in the back like, "Yeah, I do know what you mean! Vaginas do look funny! Sometimes they do smell kinda bad! Heh heh heh. Clams! BUCKET of clams! Ha!"

I was worried. I was ashamed. Especially after I high-fived myself.

Apparently, though, there's still an offended feminist within me, awakened by this little gem from the cosmetics company Lush. It's the Sweet Japanese Girl cleanser. (Which my kick-ass friend, Josie Caro, alerted me to.)

It's hard to even know where to begin. Sweet? Japanese? Girl? How sexist! How racist! How insensitive! Sure, some ignorant and disgusting people might like to rub their dirty bodies with a crude representation of a sweet Japanese girl, but what of those of us who are beyond that, who have actually thought about concepts like sexism and racism, who might like their soap to come in the shape of, say, a "Bewildered Indian" or an "Angry Polynesian" girl? I'd like to rub my body with an Angry Polynesian. Hell yeah. Where, I ask, is the soap for people like us?

Shit! Sorry! Damn it! I'm missing my own point, aren't I? See, sometimes the lesbian part of me gets the better of the feminist part of me. It happens. These two women that reside within me—figuratively, of course—conflict, often over American Apparel ads. The feminist part of me will be shocked and outraged that any company would try to peddle its overpriced, shoddy cotton wear by slapping it haphazardly over the exposed crotch areas of droopy-lidded anemic teenagers, while the lesbian part of me thinks, well, it's kinda hot. Then these two women that reside within me—figuratively, of course—confront each other with their points of view. They have to fight it out—figuratively, of course—while I then have to masturbate— figurative...actually, no. Quite literally. Whatever. Don't judge me.

In any case, if you're as offended as I am by Lush's product, let them know! I've collected contact emails from their website for your convenience. Feel free to write your own letter or to copy and paste one of my sample letters.

The first email address, feedback@lush.com, is for "constructive feedback and suggestions." They're probably expecting stuff like, "Wow, ever since I started using Mask of Magnaminty, my pores are unnoticeable! In fact, my pores are so unnoticeable, the actual skin on my face has disappeared! Thanks, Lush, for solving the problem of me having skin and that skin having pores and those pores functioning! P.S. I'm down to a size 0, too, so it's perfect!! I'm not sure I even exist." Here's the letter I'm sending to feedback:

Hi Lush!!

I recently bought your Sweet Japanese Girl facial cleanser. I absolutely loved how the almonds exfoliated my face. I've used plain, roasted almonds as a skin cleanser in the past, but you guys were really smart to put them in a soap, it's way easier!! Also I love how the tea tree oil detoxifies my face, just like your website says! Before that my face was totally toxic and I'd always get that dumb Britney Spears song stuck in my head and she's so gross now ewww. Anyways, I have a small suggestion, tho. Maybe with the Sweet Japanese Girl Soap, in addition to putting in more almonds, which are totally awesome, you could also, like, be a socially conscious company and stop perpetuating racial stereotypes about Japanese girls being sweet! Just a thought! Thanks, Lush!!

The next email address is for "specific complaints or compliments," meaning they won't read it at all, which is obvious by the way they've named the account: rants@lush.com. Here goes:

Hey guys,

I just bought your Sweet Japanese Girl soap and I love it but I did have a problem. I mean, I did it how you guys said, by warming the bar in my hands and rubbing it on my entire face. I removed it with warm water and I followed up with the Tea Tree water facial toner and everything. But I felt like, after using this soap, my skin, especially in the T-zone, was a bit greasier and more sexist and racist than it's ever felt before. I used to use Fresh Farmacy and I didn't have that problem. I mean, a soap shaped like a square probably works one way and one shaped like an exaggeratedly flat, chubby-cheeked, slanty-eyed, no-nosed ethnic "face" probably works a whole other way. Do you think it could be the shape of the soap that makes my skin feel filmy and prejudiced? Let me know! Thanks!

The next address, products@lush.com, is for product-specific questions. They say we should allow up to 72 hours for their reply and they thank us in advance for our patience. Translation: "Corrine, our e-mail intern, gets to this between fetching us Double Tall Soy Lattes and reading depilatory tips in the latest Cosmo. You'll hear back from us when we feel like it." This one was, by far, the most fun to write:

Hey Lush, I have a few questions about Sweet Japanese Girl (SJG). Were you guys being intentionally racist, misogynistic and sexist when you introduced SJG or was that just a coincidence? When between Baby Face and Angels on Bare Skin did you decide it was acceptable to make a grotesquely exaggerated portrayal of a Japanese face? Why does the face look as if it's been bashed in with a frying pan? Or is it supposed to look as if it's been bashed in with a wok? Why doesn't SJG have a nose? Who writes the obviously fake customer reviews on your website? How can you pride yourself on being a "fun & funky" store (no doubt funkier by the use of an ampersand!) when you carry a product that so clearly offends Asians & pretty much any thinking human being? Is thinly vieled racism supposed to be "fun & funky ?" How did SJG pass not just one person, but a supposed TEAM of people, from design to packaging to marketing? Are you interested in having customers? Do you realize that there are over 128 million Japanese people in the world? What the fuck is wrong with you? And why didn't you at least make SJG smell like Soba noodles? Thank you in advance to your answers to any or all of my questions.

Okay, guys, the last email address, support@lush.com, is a contact if you have "a technical issue with the web-site or forum." They say they'll "endeavor to get back to you within 24 hours to either provide a solution or indicate that we are working on this for you." Here's my letter:

Hi Lush,

I'm having a problem with your website. On the page http://usa.lush.com/cgi-bin/lushdb/234?expand=Skincare there's a product called Sweet Japanese Girl. I'm wondering if this is a glitch, maybe something to do with Y2K? I'm from 2008, not 1908, and where I'm from, Japanese people aren't exotic and sweet and cute and but rather just regular people. I'm wondering why this shows up on the website when there are no other comparable offensively stereotypical products, nothing like Hot-Tempered Mexican Girl or Oppressed Arab Girl or Ignorant American Girl. Is it possible that your server's down? Whatever it is, I'd appreciate you working on it. Please get back to me to let me know what solution you can provide. Thanks!

So, guys, those are the letters I've sent. I'll let you know if I hear anything back. If you decide to write to Lush or want to spout off, drop me a comment!

Seasonal Affective Disorder Quiz

2007-11-05T12:38:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Daylight Savings Time, we've recently "gained" an hour, and I'm starting to feel the ol' seasonal affective disorder kick in. I mean, did most of you spend the "extra hour" sitting cross-legged in the dark, contemplating all the bad choices you've made in your life so far, feeling vitamin A drain out of your body in inverse proportion to the growing sense that you'll never truly love or be loved? Well, if you think you may have SAD (Aww, isn't that an adorable acronym?), here's a handy quiz you can take to find out for sure!

1. When the sun sets, I am usually:

a.) Whistling as I work. I love work! And whistling! Tweedle tweedle!

b.) Watching Oprah give away 600 thread count, organic, cotton sheet sets to South African orphans.

c.) Crying, curled up in a fetal position.

2. In Winter, I especially like to:

a.) Ski! Give me a brisk day and a snowy mountain and I'm in heaven! Tweedly tweedle!

b.) Watch hockey, snowboarding, and Party of Five reruns.

c.) Cry, curled up in a fetal position in a bed I haven't left all day.

3. Most of my friends would say I am:

a.) Super fun and a super duper nice person! Tweedle tweedle twee twee!

b.) In control. Robin, Dr. Phil's wife, says I can make deliberate choices that lead to a richer, happier, and more meaningful life.

c.) Crying, curled up in a fetal position in a bed I haven't left all day, which is filled with used tissues.

4. One thing that really gets on my nerves is:

a.) Mean people. Boo on meanies! Tweedle weedle wee wee wee!

b.) Commercials.

c.) Crying, curled up in a fetal position in a bed I haven't left all day, which is filled with used tissues and an ever increasing amount of Cool Ranch Dorito crumbs.

5. Waking up in the morning, I think:

a.) Wow, Jesus sure did make another blue-ribbon winner of a hum-dingingly glorious day! Tweedle deedle doo!

b.) Did I already miss The View?

c.) Oh, I'm still crying, curled up in a fetal position in a bed I haven't left in five days, which is filled with used tissues, an ever increasing amount of Cool Ranch Dorito crumbs, and an unshakable sense that I'm an ultimately useless collection of molecules destined to live out a meaningless existence only to find myself at the end of it--having never even had so much as one decent hair cut-- unloved, unaccomplished and deeply and utterly alone.

Time for scoring!
Mostly (a)s: You can fuck yourself.
Mostly (b)s: Congrats. You're slugging through.
Mostly (c)s: Hey, do you get that cold, empty feeling in your chest? Like no amount of Cool Ranch Doritos or praise or human touch will ever be enough? Well, only about five more months to go.

Hope that was helpful, guys! Happy Daylight Savings Time!

Nanny Square: The Final Chapter

2007-10-26T22:41:00.000-04:00

Guys, it's with a heavy heart that I report that this will be the final edition of the Nanny Square saga. It's with an even heavier heart that I report that I (and my wise-assery) have been defeated, fair and nanny square, by Ben Cury.

Here's what I got, a day after sending my last email:

It ok .. the number you send to me is incorrect could you pls confrim the phone number and resend it to me so i can give you call asap .

Rather than rambling on about how much "confrim" is my new favorite word, I'll just show you my reply:

PLS CALL 514.67.3298 URGENT TO DISCUSS NANNY DETAILS.

ALSO, WHAT COLOR IS YOUR BABY? RIGHT NOW CAN ONLY ACCEPT WHITE OR VERY LIGHT BROWN BABIES (ONLY GREEN.HASEL EYES).

THANKS YOU!

I thought-- mistakenly, foolishly-- that pushing the correspondence into creepy, vaguely racist territory would be hilarious. I kind of thought ol' Ben Cury would write back with a "Ha ha ha! You got me!" Well, knowing Ben, it would be more like, "HahaHAHAH. U gets me!!" Instead, less than an hour later, I got this:

White and hasel Eyes , sorry for not getting quickly i promise i will call you today .. also the number you send to me is incomplete check the phone number and email me back

thanks you

Dude just won't quit. And as much as I'd like to give him my phone number and see what he's all about in person, I don't think it would be prudent(1). So, reluctantly, I bid farewell to phrases like "i will likes this to be conclude" and "thanks you" and "bcos." You win this round, Ben Cury. But let me say just one more thing:

I WILL LIKES THIS TO BE CONCLUDE BCOS U ARE TO START BE SCARES ME A LITTLE!! MUST GO NOW URGENT. THANKS YOU.

(1)Actually, that's not quite true. I would do it, but my girlfriend advised against it. I trust her judgment more than I trust mine(2).

(2)Just about this. It's not like I'm co-dependent or anything. I do have a mind of my own (3).

(3)Whether or not I actually have underwear or socks of my own(4).

(4)Or pajama pants or opinions about what I should wear(5).

(5)Which would definitely not include scarves made of feathers wool. Apparently, it "ages" me(6).

(6)As does my CD collection. Can I help it if 1998 was a kick-ass year for music? Erykah Badu, Shawn Colvin, Fiona Apple. A golden year, I tell you, the kind of gold that's spun from unshaven arm pits and reusable, organic cotton menstrual pads(7).

(7)Bonus points to readers who realized as soon as I mentioned my girlfriend that this entry would end with the words "menstrual pads."

Nanny Square 3

2007-10-15T15:10:00.000-04:00

Amazingly, the correspondence continues to continue!

My last reply, in which I implied that the baby would be in danger at the new and alcohol-soaked Nanny Square, seemed to concern Ben Cury. He quickly assuaged his fears, though, with thoughts of how I could go shopping for his child.

I really understand you living with sister boyfriend..so how are you going to take care of my child ? why i want to send the payment to you is bcos my child may need shopping when she arrive .. also i want to send you your payment as well so if you email me your full contact details then i can know the address where my child is going to ...

try and understand ...

I decided to crank it up a notch.

DEAR CURRZY BEN, THANK YOU FOR UDNERSTANDING. AS I KNEW, YOU VERY TRUSTWORLDLY PERSON AND KIND HARDED. I SEE YOUR POINT OF BABY MAY NEED SHOPPING WHEN SHE ARRIVE. I LOVE SHOPPING FOR BABY! ALL SMALL THINGS-SO CUTE-AND SMALL DRESSES AND TINYTINY HIGH HEELS FOR EXTRA DRESS UP SEXY.

I PREFER TO TELL YOU MY ADDRESS OVER PHONE. DO NOT HAVE MEMORIZED FOR TYPING YET BUT I CAN GO TO LAUNDROMAT NEXT DOOR (VENDING MACHINE, TOO! SALT AND VINEGAR CHIPS) USE PAY PHONE AND READ STREET SIGNS FOR BEST DIRECTION IF YOU CALL. PLUS BETTER BCOS I DON'T KNOW HOW LONG I WILL BE HERE (FOR YELLING, BRUISES, ETC.). MAYBE ADDRESS WILL CHANGE SOON.

WHAT IS YOUR PHONE NUMBER? I WILL CALL YOU WITH MORE DETAILS.

P.S. DONT WORRY I WILL TAKE GOOD CARE OF YOUR BABY THEO I TOTALY UNDERSTAND YOUR SITUATION SOMETIMES BABY IS A PAIN IN THE YOU KNOW (HAHAHA) AND YOU MUST USE NANNY FOR PART TIME CARE. I WILL TAKE GOOD CARE WATCHING BABY AND PLAYING NOT DANGEROUS WITH BABY.

PLEASE REPLY ME BACK YOUR PHONE NUMBER URGENT...WE WILL DISCUSS!

Have I foiled Ben into telling me his phone number? Why are the laundromat's salt and vinegar chips so delicious? And seriously, why are skinny, anemic dudes running around in super tight black jeans these days? The answers to at least one of these questions on the next installment of Nanny Square!

Nanny Square, Squared

2007-10-13T18:48:00.000-04:00

The correspondence continues!

Yes i got your email DeAnne Smith it is pleasure to me , meanwhile i will need your payment information cos the payment will be sent to you via Money order which i urge your regard to write me back with the payment details .. Full name , contact address, phone number , minf you my child will be available from 2pm to 8pm bcos she do go school so after school you are to take care of Her .. if i can sake can you take care of her weekend ?
kindly email me back .. once again am delighted in your service .

Hey, Ben read enough of my email to use my full name, which inspires trust. I mean, if he can sake, maybe I can take care of her weekend. Let's see how far Ben wants to go with this thing.

DEAR CURZZY BEN 2 P.M TO 8 PM CHILD AVAILABLE GOOD COS AFTER SCHOOL CARE KIDNLY. I DNOT HAVE PHONE NUMBER AT THIS TIME! MY PAROLE OFFICER INTERCEPT ALL CALL-- DIFFICULT TO TALK PRIVATE! PLEASE BRING BABY TO NANNY SQUARE THURDSAY 2 P.M. WILL WAIT ARRIVAL. IN REGARD TO NANNY CARE PAYMENT WE CAN DISCUSS TOMORROW. I ACCEPT CASH, CHECK, MONEY ORDER AND MARIJUANNA (ONLY HYDROPHONIC GROWN). THANKS YOU LOOK FORWARD TO MEET MY NEWEST NANNY SQUARE FAMILY MEMBER! SOME QUESTIONS BEFORE BABY ARRIVAL:

-DOES BABY HAS SPECIAL ALLERGIC NEEDS?

-DOES BABY NAPTIME PLAY QUIET? (3-5 P.M. FOR WATCHING DR PHIL ETC..)

-ON WEEKEND, DOES BABY NEED BED SATURDAY NIGHT OR IN CAR BACKSEAT OKAY FOR DANCING AND FUN TIME FOR NANNY?

THANK YOU KINDLY REGARD!

You'd think Ben would get the hint. You'd be wrong. Perhaps you're the kind of person who also thinks skinny men in fitted, black jeans look "cool" and "emo" as opposed to "ill" and "chickeny." You're all kinds of wrong. Here's more from Ben:

Good ... am so delighted in caring for my child .. email me back with your payment details cos the payment will be sent via Money order so i urge your regard to email me back with your full name , contact address, phone number so i can proceed and let you know when my child will arrive .

GREAT! PAYMENT DETAILS UNAVAIBLE NOW...AM LIVING WITH SISTER'S BOYFRIENDS MOM NO POSTAL CODE!! WAITED ARRIVAL THURSDAY FOR BABY. WHAT HAPPENED? OH WELL, IS PROBABLY GOOD BCOS SISTER'S BOYFRIENDS MOM VERY DRUNK VERY ANGRY ON THURSDAY DIFFICULT TO HAVE QUIET NAP TIME OR PLAY NICE TMIE FOR BABY. DO BABY HAVE PROBLEM FOR LOUD SHOUTING? OR THROWING LAMPS ON OCCASSION? DO BABY HAVE GOOD REFLECTS? CAN BABY ACT INVISIBLE? THINKING NOW ALL IS IMPORTANT BABY SKILLS FOR NEW NANNY SQUARE. LET ME KNOW. ONCE AGAIN, THANK YOU FINE!!

P.S. FOUND (STOLE) SELL PHONE. DO CALL FOR MORE DETAILS. 514.67.3298...

Will Ben Call? Will I finally break down and give up my payment details? What makes sister's boyfriend's mom so angry? Stayed tuned for the next installment of Nanny Square!

Welcome to Nanny Square!

2007-10-08T13:26:00.000-04:00

Hey guys, so as some of you know, not only am I a responsible, trustworthy and caring comedian, I'm also a hilarious, quick-witted and politically insightful babysitter! Since I have a contract ending soon, I've posted an ad on Craigslist looking for part-time jobs. I expected to find a bunch of D.I.Y., lefty, hippie parents eager to bring a like-minded comedian into their family; I should have expected a fair share of nutcases. First there was M, who wanted someone to take his baby for a few weeks while he was in Africa. This is his email, minus identifying details:

Hello my name is M_____
I work as an international business man and Textile Supply,I am 41yrs old,I was choosen to supply Textile and Cotton Tread for H & T textile Investment company In Africa and i will be going for not more than three weeks or less.
I have a baby of that will clock 2yrs in August,His name is t____,I'm Looking for someone that will be able to take Good care of this baby for me,And I will be leaving for my trip soon as i see someone to take care of the baby for me till i comes back.. Get back to the full details about how you render service out to customer. What do you want to know from me about t____?
Looking forward to read from you.
call me :1-XXX-322-4767.
Thanks,
M_____

Pretty fishy, huh? I believe my response was quite restrained:

Hi M_____,

Thanks for contacting me. My schedule has filled in and I'll be unable to help you out. Good luck finding someone to care for T_____!

And that was that. I thought I'd done an excellent job of keeping my comedic instincts in check. But then I got this, from ben_cury@yahoo.com :

Hi there! I've been looking on Craigslist for Baby sitter over 2 months Now and still have yet to be able to find a decent Baby sitter (Nanny) $800. I have well-behaved Child Theo Currz 5 years Old . I need Nanny with for my baby with (no offense, well behaved nanny and creative nanny ). Little about my husband He work Full-time at CHEAPFABRICS.CO.US for programming and I am planning on getting back into New teaching school for Massage Therapy. will are Trustworldy, non-smokers, straight and drama-free. i drink a little but mostly while out for dinner or at the club. i don't party and are pretty quiet types, love play drum for Middle-Eastern Belly Dancers (and only during the afternoon when it is suitable). i work full-time days and are very kind, and easy-going, and Inactive LDS but very open-minded. I'm 30 my husband is 37 Year . I am getting anxious and desperate wanting Nanny for my baby , but still have my eyes open for immediate baby sitter !! I am not picky, but I prefer to conclude this with immediate Effect (urgently Needed ). Please let me know if you are available for my service !Did you accept payment through Bank certified check or Money Order? i will like this to be conclude Asap by getting back to me with your Nanny payment details so my Husband can issue out the payment before our baby come Over to your nanny Squre ..
Reply me back with your Payment information ...did you agreed with the fees i want you to send you upon arrive of my child to your daycare
Make sure you get back to me with you......

a brief idea of your personality:
1) What academic qualifications do you possess?
2) Do you have any relevant certificate to back up your babysitting/Nannycareer?
3) How old are you?
4) Are you married?
5) Do you have any special attitude?
6) Do you have any crime records?
7) Do you have a valid drivers license?
8) Tell us more about your temperament .
9) Can we have one or two reference(s) from you?
Regards

This time, I decided to have some fun with what was obviously some kind of scammer. Reply you back? I'll reply you back, buddy. But where to begin? From horrible grammar to inconsistent use of capital letters to unnecessary personal details, it was all too much. Here's how I responded, never thinking we'd actually begin a correspondence:

SO GLAD YOU WRITE I HAVE BEEN LOOKING YET UNABLE FOR NANNY POSITION BABY THEO I LIKE CRATIVE NAME. NO (OFENSE) I SEEK BABY 2 YEAR OR OLDEST FOR WITH POTTY TRAIN NO DIAPER PROBLEM. LITTLE ABOUT ME I AM RESPONSABLE GOOD WITH BABY WELL I DRINK SOMETIMES BUT NOT FOR DAY WITH BABY NO WAY. I LOVE BIKE RIDE WITH FOR BABY OR WITH4OUT BABY DO YOU HAVE HELMUT FOR BABY. IN NANNY SQUARE IS TWO HELMUT FOR ME AND FOR OTHER CHILD. DO YOU HAVE TROUGLE I WATCH TWO OTHER BABY ONE BABY 3, THE OTHER ARE 4! I AM TRUSTWORLDY. NON-SMOKER, ADN DRAMA FREE WELL? SOMETIMES I HVAE DRAME BUT ONLY FOR MY BOYFRIEND. HA HA YOU KNOW. I PREFER TO CONCLUDE THIS WITH IMMEDIATE EFEFCT SO I WE'LL ANSER YOUR QU3STIONS.

a brief idea of your personality:
1) What academic qualifications do you possess?
TWO CREDITS FROM G.E.D. ONE MORE CLASS!

2) Do you have any relevant certificate to back up your babysitting/Nannycareer?
NO."

3) How old are you?
THRITY9

4) Are you married?
YES

5) Do you have any special attitude?
YESA

6) Do you have any crime records?
REPLY ME BACK I WILL CAN GIVE DETAILS (YES)

7. Do you have a valid drivers license?
YES

8) Tell us more about your temperament .
I DONT HAVE TEMPERAMENT AM VERY HEALTHY'

9) Can we have one or two reference(s) from you?
YES

Less than twelve hours later, I got this:

Good to read from you , am so delighted in giving you my child for care so i rest my trust in you ... now i urge your regard to forward me your details so i can proceed in sending you the payment and let you know when my child will arrive your place for service . hope am making sence in this mail ? Once again am glad you will now be among my family cos i see you the same way i am thank you ... write me back with your full name , contacy address, phone number so i can proceed as i stated .

thanks you

I know better than to send some sketchy stranger my full name and contacy address! But, like he said, he's « so delighted in giving me his child for care, » I thought I should write back.

THANKS YOU FOR REPLY I KNOW FAMILY TIME FEELNIG BETWEEN US NOW! BRING YOU BABY THEO TO NANNY SQUARE THURSDAY WILL ARRIVE GOOD TIME HELMUTS OKAY. YOU EMAIL MAKE PERFECT SENCE I KNOW WE FAMILY CARE TRUSTY. 8 A.M. FINE. CAN NOT CALL NOW.OTHER BABY BROKE PHONE AM ANGRY BUT FINE! LOOK FORWARD WITH MEET THEO1

Will Ben Cury/Currz write again? Will Theo arrive at Nanny Square for service? What the hell is Inactive LDS? Stay tuned!