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.