Recovering from heatstroke at the moment - you think being a pale, formerly-fat git in this country I'd have had it before but not in recent memory. A constant, dull headache that doesn't seem to go away and gets stronger whenever I walk outside. And so far a couple of random bursts where I feel like I'm burning alive just sitting inside.
This is from my latest acting exploit - the closest I've actually come to proper acting for quite a while, as my good friend Daniel has requested my services several times over the last two years to make gimmick videos wherein we and whoever else is around wear stupid costumes and then perform a 'script' with about three and-a-half lines of dialogue, ad-libbing to pad it out to 10 minutes. Now, he's decided to turn his eye to serious things and I've been given an actual script to perform and the result has been heatstroke.
The fact that the filming was undertaken at the same venue I was previously approached by a knife-wielding aborigine should not necessarily be read as the land being cursed, but neither should this be seen as out of the question.
The scene involved me doing a lot of walking in a costume that was a bit of a cross between those of Colonel Sanders and Elton John, in blazing sunlight - and a lot of awkard standing around as shots were worked out and we waited for strangers to piss off. Maybe recounts of my previous visit have spread around, for it seems that the former mental asylum at Wyee Point is now a minor tourist attraction of the Central Coast. Going by the fact that around 20 people showed up during the five hours or so we were filming.
First, dirt bikers, who I can understand because there's a lot of open space and one or two decent sand dunes to jump from in there. Then a four wheel drive full of surprisingly hideous teenaged girls. This wouldn't be that spectacular if they didn't come back 6 times. The highlight was when Sam, innocently taking photographs of events as part of his new hobby, caused them to brake suddenly and demand if he was a private investigator. Ah, logic. The last stage of puberty.
On one of their many returns, where they also brought with them a long-faced girl dressed like a widow in a second hand hatchback, presumably to elevate themselves to 'looker' status, they demanded details about the film we were making. Daniel cunningly told them it was a project called 'Mr Gun and Doctor Plonk', and when this got them demanding more detail I claimed it was a fourth-wall breaking exercise on the principle of the 'death of the author' - a film concerning itself with nothing directly so any interpretation would be purely down to the audience. This was an effort to bore them with nonsensical 'high' concepts to just get them to fuck off. It seemed to be mildly successful.
The other visitors was a small troupe of City Rail workers - one of whom triggered my survival instincts by walking much, much closer to use than one usually would need to in response to the word 'hello'. They seemed harmless, however, and one of them appeared to have even been through the same film course as Daniel, recognising the name of his teacher and talking about an upcoming sitcom, perhaps offering us a terrifying glimpse into our own futures.
(Apologies to upstanding City Rail employees, such as the husband of my mother's part-time assisstant book-keeper, who I am faintly acquainted with, and that guy who reminded me that I buy a Return ticket every day when I tried to buy a Single. I used your name as a fairly negative noun based on a few poor experiences, the chief one being when I was driving down Alison Rd at Wyong at exactly the speed limit, sticking to the centre of my lane, indicating slightly early for a right-hand turn before shifting to the right-hand-most position of the lane and allowing anyone behind me to go past on the left, exactly as I was trained.
As I checked my blind spot, the City Rail ute that had been behind me overtook on the gap that I had left, and as they went past the driver roared the words "FUCK YOU!" with such volume and force that I half expected my windows to shatter and probably veered slightly into the neighbouring lane on my turn.
Obviously I have no objection to obscenity (you motherfuckers) but I can't help but feel that they should be used in moderation and to a standardised system in motoring. If you give me the SONIC FUCK when I'm actually obeying all road rules and giving you every oppurtunity to go past me, what do you give the fuckers who don't give way, or stop dead in the middle of a road around a bend? Get some perspective!
Yes, four paragraphs within parantheses. Fucking rebel.)
After that around eight kids showed up, when I was already tired (due to standing in full sunlight for over an hour, as it turned out..) and proclaimed events over in true diva form.
It probably won't surprise anybody but heatstroke sucks.
EDIT: As an indication of how out-of-sorts I am, I failed to get too excited over the news that Meghan McCain, daughter of John McCain, has posted an overly cleavagicious photo of herself on Twitter.
This mightn't seem like something to get particularly excited over, but I do have an inexplicable obsession with the idea of getting it on with any female somehow connected with the American Presidency. I know, it's warped, but all too true as my friend Nadia can attest to, having seen me despondent for a whole day at the news that Chelsea Clinton was engaged.
Meghan McCain's marital status was not mentioned in the article...