Adventures Update: Apocalypse Party

I probably wouldn't have gone to Apocalypse Party if it hadn't sounded like such a uniquely awesome idea. Originally, it was planned to simulate a drill for any kind of impending apocalypse. These guys who had some property out in the country decided to invite a bunch of people to kick back in the wilderness for a weekend, eat tinned food and sleep in cars, pretending the world as we know it had come to an end. The plan was also to crank a stereo, drink and pretty much just party the whole time.

The location was shrouded in secrecy. The only directions given were some very exact map co-ordinates. Anyone who wanted to come was supposed to enter them into Google Maps and work it out from there. When Buglustre told us she was driving, Vegatrain and I jumped at the chance for a road trip. In our haste, we had both completely forgotten to make elaborately obscure mix cds for the trip, but Buglustre had us covered. The all-ska playlist that resulted reminded me of being on tour back when I was in the band, driving from gig to gig and listening to similar mixes. It was a nice thing to be reminded of.

The drive itself was mostly uneventful, apart from the indignant terror I experienced when I realised the woman in the car next to us was watching a TV in the dashboard of her car WHILE SHE WAS DRIVING. DON'T DO THAT. I hate it so much when people break the road rules, or act in a generally careless manner while driving. Safety first, everyone. Safety first. Buglustre managed to bring me back to the conversation by telling me about her recent experiences mixing vodka with spumante, although that had the unpleasant side-effect of making my liver recoil in terror. Soon enough though, we were bumping around on the dirt road that led to our post-apocalyptic destination.

At first it didn't look like much: a group of people standing around, talking and laughing. Like every other party, only, in the middle of nowhere. Kind of like the parties I went to when I was sixteen, held in a friend's back paddock so we wouldn't get caught underage drinking.

But when I saw the main set-up, I was pretty impressed. In the hollow of a hill was the ruined remains of an old cottage. This is where the party was set up. Old couches, probably collected from the side of the road, were scattered around a fairly impressive stereo system. I'm pretty sure there was an old boat amongst the rubbish. The hosts struggled to string up some lights before it started getting dark. A guy with a camera was eating from a large tin of beans. The view was spectacular. 

The outhouse was pretty authentic, too, although a lot of the girls didn't seem to look at that as a good thing. I first needed to use it at dusk, just when it was starting to become difficult to see (the boys were still struggling with the lights). It was basically an aluminium box. Some girls offered to hold the door shut for me, because apparently that had been a problem so far.

"Wow, just like solitary confinement," I said, to no-one in particular as I stepped inside. The girls laughed awkwardly and then ignored me. Inside, it was pitch black. The only light filtering in was through tiny pin-pricks on the walls, which created little dots that danced on the back of the door. I had to be careful where I stepped, as the heels of my boots kept finding their way into holes in the floor. I quite liked it, really.

Although I didn't know many people there, it seemed to be one of those places where just hearing a one-line conversational snippet was enough.

"It's too cold for an orgy, everything would shrink"

"Hey, did you hear? I parted the red sea."

There was this outgoing goth girl there, who seemed to take a real liking to me. I was introducing myself to the group by teaching them some dances that I (or friends of mine) have created over the years. The 'These Are My Feet' dance (consisting mainly of gesturing wildly to your feet in time to the music) was the true winner of the night, although I felt that the 'Psychology Cat' didn't get the recognition it deserved. I soon found myself relying on a dance I termed the 'Existential Crisis', which consisted of me bobbing awkwardly along to the music, feeling self-conscious and contemplating my own existence. I moved off the dance-floor and found myself talking to people.

Me: You know, this reminds me a lot of 'Tomorrow, When The War Began'.

Goth Girl: What?

Me: You know, the books?

Goth Girl: I don't read.

Me: Oh.

Goth Girl: Except for necrophiliac porn.

Me: Oh.

I enjoyed the time I spent there, but for me, the party was over when they started playing Mumford and Sons. I hate Mumford and Sons. I hate them. It is not that they are a bad band, they are okay. But because folk is one of my favourite genres, I have listened to enough bands to know that they are well, kind of bland and unoriginal. It wouldn't bother me so much, except that somehow everyone seems to think they are these amazing indie-folk superstars, pioneers in music, Triple J Hottest 100 Number One!

They aren't. Seriously. For anyone who thinks Mumford and Sons are in anyway an original or interesting band, listen to Local Natives. Listen to Noah and the Whale. Listen to Andrew Bird. Listen to The Middle East, who were playing alongside Blandford and Sons at Laneway this year and got not even a tiny percentage of the recognition that they got. That's what annoys me. It's the fact that there are these amazing bands slogging it out for peanuts, and then someone releases a commercial tune labelled as 'indie-folk' and everyone thinks its revolutionary. It's not.

Anyway, back at the party. At one point the stereo was turned off for a haphazard band to start playing. I was hopeful, but then quickly disappointed. I guess they didn't really think they needed to rehearse together beforehand, then when they got there realised that they didn't know what they were doing and packed up after about three songs. I guess in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, you're not exactly spoilt for musical choice.

When the band packed up, a lone saxophonist took their place, and just started jamming. He was really good, but by this stage I had well and truly recoiled into my cocoon of introversion, and hearing a saxophone just made me miss the instruments my parents still have yet to send over. This is the longest I have ever gone without playing music regularly, and I am craving it so badly. Just one hit from a nice piano, please. One sax riff, I'm desperate. I'd settle for a glockenspiel at this stage.

Feeling totally old and boring, I ended up napping in Buglustre's car for awhile until she was ready to go. I did have a good time, and I'm glad I went, but I guess I'm a bit too fond of pre-apocalyptic comforts to make a habit of such adventures.

-Smackie Onassis

An Article In Favour Of An Ant-Based Radioactive Superhero

I'm going to put it out there: ants are probably the most underrated awesome creatures on the entire planet. Now that Meattrain has a job being a chemistry dude at a uranium mine, we have spent some time discussing how likely it is that he is going to be bitten by some kind of radioactive creature and develop super-powers. We also discussed, if he were to set this up on purpose (“hypothetically”), which would be the coolest creature to give him his powers. Overwhelmingly, everyone seemed to agree that you couldn’t go past the classic, the spider, because those things are pretty hardcore I guess. And it’s true, for sheer murdering prowess, you can’t go past the spider.

“But what about ants?” I suggested, being instantly laughed back into silence. In a world where a spider can kill you in an hour without even getting up from its tiny spider couch, ants don’t seem like leaders in the creepy-crawly kingdom. But come on guys, give them a chance.

There was a friday night a while ago where my good friend Buglustre was at a party. She didn’t really know anyone there and, meanwhile, I was at home reading about ants (and loving it, I assure you). What sort of ended up happening was that I would text her something interesting I had learned about ants, and she would use it as a conversation starter. Needless to say, it wasn’t a very good move. Those people still probably remember her as ‘that weird ant girl’. 

But seriously, how are people not interested in ants? In my opinion, there is just so much potential for a radioactive ant-based superhero that would TOTALLY kick arse. Here is why:

First of all, ants can lift up to twenty times their body weight. That's an obvious superhero advantage. There's the amazing speed as well. If an ant were a dude he would be able to run as fast as a racehorse. Are you listening to this, Meattrain? Can your fancy spiderman run that fast?

But these aren’t the most amazing things about ants. Not even close. Have you EVEN HEARD about the Paraponera, a totally bitchin South American ant? Basically, this ant can hurt you so, so badly, and it is not even radioactive yet. Yet.* 

And, yes, I know about Ant-Man, but that guy was totally not living up to his full potential as an ant representative in the superhero world. As far as I'm aware, he couldn't do much except shrink down to tiny size, which is kind of the opposite of a superpower, really. 'Hey Crime, I am going to thwart you by making myself conveniently sized for you to totally squish me with your shoe'.

Get back to me on that one, Comic Books.

-Smackie Onassis

*For more amazingly hardcore ant facts, consult your local Cracked article, such as this one: http://www.cracked.com/article_15816_the-5-most-horrifying-bugs-in-world.html

Nana Flapper

My parents were always very interested in geneology. I remember them being fascinated by various attempts at family trees, and stories about family members who had in someway achieved notoriety (such as how my grandfather's sister was apparently a contemporary of D.H. Lawrence. She allegedly probably had relations with him at some point.)

As soon as I was old enough to understand genetics, I started asking questions. I couldn't figure out how, if my heritage was entirely made up of anglo-saxons, I had been born with dark, curly hair and a generally very mediterranean complexion. All I need to do is think about turning on a fluorescent light and I turn brown. That's not very English.

Naturally, the answer I always expected was something along the lines of, "We bought you from some travelling gypsies when you were a baby", but funnily enough that was never the answer I received. They usually told me that I was just, well, a complete genetic throwback. When I asked where those genes even came from to begin with, they would usually tell me the story of Nana Flapper.

Nana Flapper was my favourite relative, hands down, ever. She was excellent. She was my grandmother's mother, and had the balls to be a single mother in the 1920s. Not only that, but she never revealed to a single soul who the father was. It was her most closely guarded secret, one she kept to her deathbed, and probably the answer to my mystery genes.

I always liked Nana Flapper stories. One oft-repeated piece of family mythology tells the story of how she won her first house on a poker game. My mother always insisted that this was probably an exaggeration, but I can't think of anything that story could have evolved from that is not already pretty excellent. I totally believed it, too. I saw the way she could pick a horse, right up into her nineties. It was rare that she wouldn't come out ahead, which always seemed like an amazing act of rebellion towards my Christian parents.

Nana Flapper was a smart talker, too. It is a very grounding experience when, as a teenager, you are sassed by your 90-something great grandmother. I loved it. She was also probably a big influence in encouraging me to write, as well. If any of us ever complained about having nothing to do, she would come back with "What do mean there's nothing to do? You've got a brain haven't you? Write a book!'. And I would.

Nana Flapper died some years ago, at the grand old age of 97. It was always reassuring to me, that someone like her could live to such an old age and get away with it. I have spent some time imagining who my mystery great-grandfather was, and why his identity was such a secret. Perhaps he was some kind of dashing Spanish superhero. That would explain why we can never know who he was.

-Smackie Onassis