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

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

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

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

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!"

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

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

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?

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

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"

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!

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

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

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