Death of a pet continued.....

Beaky meant the world to our family, especially Mum. But, on account of the title of this blog, there's no prizes for guessing where this story is going.

One day, Dad came home from work to an empty house. Mum was in town shopping for groceries. Dad went about his business, walking down to the paddock to feed the animals. He laid hay out for the cows, gave rolled oats to the ponies and donkeys and pellets to the goats. His last job was scattering grain on the ground for the chooks. They all gathered around his feet, stomachs growling and chests puffed out, eagerly awaiting the shower of grains. All but one chook. Beaky.

Dad didn't take too much notice. Sometimes Beaky would just wait up at the house where it was warmer and hope to get some of the leftovers. Dad finished the feeding frenzy and walked up to the house to look for the missing Beaky.

He walked inside, and there he was. Sitting in the middle of the hallway. Dad didn't realise he was dead at first. It was an easy mistake to make. Beaky had simply tucked his wings in tight, sat down on his haunches, closed his eyes and died. Dad stood there and looked at him for a moment. For a brief moment, Dad was pretty upset. Then he was suddenly struck by the fact that Beaky just looked so incredibly peaceful just sitting there. He couldn't believe that this little bird looked so cute. There was no need to be upset, he'd made the decision to go himself.

'Trish has to see this,' Dad thought to himself. Then not really thinking too much at all, he scooped little stiff zen-like Beaky up and popped him in the freezer. 'I'll preserve you! Trish won't be so upset if she sees how peaceful you were when you died'. Dad though it was genius.

But Dad's not a genius. He's forgetful. And he forgot about putting Beaky in the freezer for 2 days!

It was almost three nights later, when we'd all finished dinner and Mum asked if we wanted dessert. That's when Dad remembered. Unfortunately it was a moment too late. Mum swung the freezer door open and screamed.

'Beaky, Beaky, oh little Beaky!'

'Oh, yeah.... umm Trish, I...'

Dad had put him in there to make Mum feel better, but he knew it was too late now. She was quickly beyond feeling good. I think she was in too much shock to feel anything. She stared at Beaky for awhile, and then cried. Beaky looked still looked gorgeous after 2 days perched like a little budda on the frozen fish fingers, beak crossed and eye closed shut. Dad didn't need to say anything, Mum knew Beaky had gone peacefully. Mum reached into the freezer, lifted him up. I thought she was going to take him out, but she went for the choc-chip icecream instead.

We all sat down around the kitchen bench and ate our icecream in silence. Mum was ok, I guess. I mean, she looked like an depressed, overweight, binge-eating teenager, the way she was eating icecream and sobbing into her bowl at the same time. But she got over it.

Beaky had had a great life, and we all knew it. That was the most important thing to Mum. That's always been the most important thing to us. As a family, we've lost a lot of animals along the way - and considering Mum has a menagerie, we'll lose a lot more.

But no matter how many times you part with a pet, it doesn't get any easier. They are our little friends, we spend so much time with them and love them with all our hearts. And when they are gone they leave a big hole in your chest. A hole that's filled with grief, but also hopefully a little bit of knowing that we gave them the best chance we could.

I miss you Beaky, Bimbo, Bruce, Ozzie, Missy, Misty, Becky, Heidi, Kevin, Cooper, Pig-Pig, Rosie and Santa.

And most of all, I miss you Gus.

Super Retard

I feel like the biggest super retard.

Me and auditions are about as good as blue cordial on toast. A soggy piece of shit.

I had one today for a kids theatre show. I've done them before, I know the writer, the other actor and the director has seen me in three other productions - it all should've been all so easy.

But it wasn't, I fucked it. How? I don't even know. I was just shit.

I think it's because I've never really had to audition for too much, and now I don't really know how to. I've been lucky, most work I've gotten has been thrown my way through past shows and friends recommendations. The idea of having to sell myself while I trying to remember lines and pretend I'm talking to a 5 year old when a middle aged man is looking at me holding sock puppets turns me into a super retard.

Today things just didn't go to plan. And it's my own stupid fault.

Puck you Australia!

I doubt that I'm even gonna watch The Logies. I'm so thrilled about it, that it will come and go without me even blinking.

But, I gotta say - good on ya, Chris Lilley! Good on for you son! Thank god for your talents. There's absolutely no argument that you'll be taking home a few little statues on the night. The other nominees aren't even worth a look in. Adam Hills and Rove are lovely, and deserve recognition on account of their hard work - but as my friend Lindsay would describe them - they are 'beige'. And as for Kate Ritchie and Lisa McCune.... pluuuueeeese! Lucky I'm wearing a very busy floral number today, because I just vomited down the front of my shirt.

Lilley, you've made broader Australia wake up and embrace something a little different, which is not easy to do. It's inspiring and makes me wanna keep on keeping on.

Let's hope my audition for the ABC goes great guns tomorrow, so one day we can sit and have a beer together. Love your work.

The Death of a Pet

I recently lost my first pet. Gus. He was a dog. He still is a dog. He died from swallowing a chew ball, what could be more doggy than that?

He was my first pet as a big kid - as a grown up. I’d chosen him without any help, I’d fed him, I’d walked him and taken him to the beach and paid 15 bucks to have his ears cleaned afterwards. We’d made a home together in Maylands, right near his favourite park and a special part of the river that felt like ours. It was our little piece of prime real estate right near the water. And we fully embraced it. Anyone that came near couldn’t help but be enthused by Gus’ boisterous, overexcited friendship making skills and my unpretentious tracky dacks. We were the perfect couple.

I miss him, a lot.

It’s not the first time I’ve lost a pet though. There was Bimbo the family Chihuahua that got run over by a motorbike, Rosie the Guiea Pig that froze to death one winter night because we forgot to bring her cage inside and ofcourse Kevin Bacon the bush pig that we ate. I’d like to note that I was unaware until after dessert was served.

My family is hopeless when it comes to the death of our pets. Even when we are delightfully in some choc ship icecream for dessert. We love them so dearly.

My parents would welcome any animal with open arms and hearts full of love from their start to their finish, even if it is next to a corn on the cob and side of veggies.

No matter what kind of animal, we will love them. We’ll name them, all of them. And love them.

Even if you’re a chock. Even if you’re a retard. And especially if you are a chook that’s retarded.

Beaky was a special little hen. The kind of chook that wasn’t big enough for eating but big enough to love with all your heart. He got his name because of the way that his beak had formed, or should I say disformed.

The top and bottom parts would avoid coming together. Instead they decided they were attended diiferent parties, like Siamese twins having boyfriend issues. You felt like him like his was an awkard teenager before braes were invented. His beak worked like a bent pair of scissors. And just like a bent pair of scissors, it failed to do it’s job properly.

Beaky was a small chook, mostly on account of not being able to pick up grain from the ground. To combat this Mum would throw him into a bucket full of feed and he would roll around in it like he was trying to put out a fire. He’d throw his head back in scooping and shovelling as much wheat and rye into his throat as chickenly possible. It was like watching Chris Farley rolling around in a tonne full of dirty beef roadhouse sausauges, but with his mouth sewn up.

Beaky was the kinda chook that was allowed to do anything. The other chooks might of laughed at him and ridiculed his inadequencies, but he always had on up on them. Beaky stuck it right up those cocks … (to be continued)

Uptight reviewer or am I a smut?

Two Adelaide reviews.

Two very different opinions.

1. “one of the hottest tickets in town”

2. “thank god she kept her clothes on”

I feel a bit ill.

Over the course of the life of STARKERS it’s had a total of 5 reviews. Four stunning reviews and today the first shit one.

It’s irked me. You know why?

He calls me a smutty feminist. Hello Mr. Beige.

I know what people are gonna say when I tell them - “it’s just one opinion, Andrea”. I’m not stupid, and compared to every other review I can’t help but assume that this guy has kinda missed the point.

But it’s haunting me.

I have a strange desire to meet this reviewer and find out what give him his jollies.

But I know if I did, it wouldn’t amaze me when I discovered he was into Carl Barron or Chopper. He'd love sitting in the front row of a Dave Hughes show, to him that would be comedy gold – just like watching his wife do the dishes.

And I’ll thank my lucky stars that he’s not a fan of mine.

Giant dreams, midget abilities.

The title of this blog entry is also the title of one of my favourite David Sedaris short stories.

However, it's been chosen to head this blog on account of it summing up my stupid life at the moment.

I’m at the Adelaide Fringe Festival, and feeling less than magnificent with my midget abilities.

Today I decided that if I had of been lucky enough to have been born out of a meteorite and grew into big strong superhero, I wouldn’t want just any old powers. I would refuse x-ray vision and light speed flight. I’d shake my head if offered a magic whip or the ability of super strength. I would, yes I would. Even though I’ve dreamt many time about lifting a small vehicle, I would still say no!

I’ve decided that if I had to wear my undies on the outside and a cape draped over my shoulders, my skill would be the power to stack audiences.

I’d be called Andrea The Audience Maker.

And I do it all myself – without the help of television, or radio, and poster quotes like: “As seen on …”. I wouldn’t need those deceitful aide-de-camps.

The people would simply come.

Me and my sidekick would stand and watch them gather in large bulky numbers. Oh did I mention I’d have a sidekick? She’d be called Pony. She a she'd do sidekicks. Kicks out the side. Not the front or back, just the sides. First class, fully sick sidekicks.

Every night groups of people would suddenly find themselves sitting in a little sweatbox of a tent that could quite easily double as a sauna. The only exception would be the hot sticky garden chairs they’d be forced to slide their bums into, and no towels anywhere. Stage lights would shine through the broad daylight that’s already shining through the tent, giving the space even more unnecessary warmth, making it look like a weird daytime porn sauna.

Show time 7 pee em.

They wouldn’t know what to expect, but they would be pleasantly surprised. They would see someone they’d never seen before, someone they could have never even imagined seeing. She would be different, the show would be a little different. They would all be overcome with a strong feeling of enthusiastic approval and huge amount of admiration for the performer and her performance.

Despite the beads of sweat rolling down their legs, they would be all so pleased they had been shown the way by Andrea The Audience Maker & Pony. Together they had made there way through all the posters of recognisable faces and voices and they had been given a breath of fresh air. Granted it wasn’t that fresh, more past it's used by date and stuffy, but despite this, they would all conclude the route to the daytime porn sauna was a good one.

“Thanks again Audience Maker!”, they would all cheer and applaud. Then I’d ride off on Pony, sidekicking anyone in the head who asked for an autograph.