Some experiences are so outrageous that it’s hard to believe that, as a blogger, I am being handed a blog post on a silver platter. And then there are those experiences that are so good, even if you aren’t a blogger, you should start one just to recount what happened. I’m just going to relay it to you straight, should you begin to doubt it’s truth.

Earlier this week I was approached to take place in something very vaguely described as a “rent-a-crowd” situation. My first reaction was “they actually exist?” and my second was “of course”. Actually, those thoughts overlapped a little, but you get the general jist. When I was later informed it would require cameras, I was even more sure that this was something I wanted to do. Forget the fact that I would be getting paid, this was going to mean blog fodder of unquestionable value, something I simply could not pass up.

All week we pondered the specifics. Who were we stalking? Would they know who we were? Just for who’s benefit was this? All we were told was to turn up at a particular place and particular time, question the lady at the toffee stand about “orange toffee”, to which she would reply “sorry, orange toffee has to be imported” at which point we would be handed the sealed case file and self-destructing reel to reel audio tape. Well, not quite. That is what I had secretly hoped, but regardless we were still clueless as to what we were doing when we all turned up.

It turns out it wasn’t going to be quite as scandalous as inferred. Our instructions were this: to line the entrance to a big Hollywood themed corporate awards night and play the role of paparazzi photographers, snapping as many photos as we could and harassing them in true paparazzi style. Okay, so maybe not quite so demented, but it was still going to let me take pictures and yell at people, which is a beautiful scenario for me. Add to this we were all being paid pretty decently for what was half an hour’s work.

Before the doors opened we really had a great chance to take in the excessiveness of the corporate world. In spite of the drizzle raining on all the guests in their fancy frocks outside, there was still time for someone of some status to make someone of lesser status crawl on her hands and knees to remove the specks of lint from the fake red carpet. Classy.

Small groups of people were let in at a time to give them a chance to be fully accosted by us before letting the next bunch in. Some of them really played along with it and had fun, stopping to chat and pose, but others wore their internal groan on their faces. We shouted things like “Who are you wearing tonight?”, “I loved your last movie!” and “What have you got to say about rumours of a split?” at the guests, and one woman, who was absolutely concerned with what I was asking her was entirely confused when I asked her what her “next project” was.

It was a surprisingly fun night with our phony american accents and thirty minute improv session. I’d do it again (of course, should we get paid). I had always assumed my first paid acting role might be a little more glamorous, but hey - it beat picking lint off the floor for money.

Regular readers with note my penchant for cupped cakes. Don’t worry, it’s not dirty, I looked it up.

Donations to the EveryGoodBoyDeservesFruitStomach of Merriment and Jest™ having been coming thick and fast with Chae and Tim’s care package of some instant mug muffins, and now Troy has supplied me with a batch of 12 freshly iced cupped cakes. I snatched three down my garter before the greedy hogs around me stole the rest. They were delish!

Thanks Troy!

PS: For those considering further donations, I have an easy-to-read 47 page dietary guide which can be requested through email. Audio book version also available.

I saw a girl on Oprah today (as I was eating lunch, shuddup), who was a beautiful model but was convinced she was hideous when she looked into the mirror.

Later, as I was sitting at the hairdresser’s chatting to Rachael about those wasted Paula Abdul interview videos on YouTube and the kids in the next room who were hitting each other constantly, I looked into the mirror and saw me in forty years. The lighting in that place isn’t flattering at the best of times, but today I looked positively deathly. I blame most of that on the four hours of sleep I got last night which seems to be my bed’s revenge for being publically humiliated.

A few moments later, another hairdresser turned around to the kids who were hitting each other with their thongs at this point and yelled, “Hey! I’m the only slapper in here!”

Oh, well. Some people have the smarts.

… And because this post isn’t quite humiliating enough yet, here’s me right after my four hours of sleep.

and here I am, post haircut, doing my best Guy Blank impersonation.

As reported on that great light entertainment/variety program, Ten News, Queensland police have found a crop of cannabis plants the size of two football fields. Not being a sport person, I can do little but assume that’s large.

They then showed the police burning bundles off the stuff. Free highs for half of Queensland today. Snack sales are going to skyrocket.

Photo by nevermind her

Those with a quick eye will recall a scene from the 2004 season of Australian Idol in which family members, along with a camera crew, bust into Anthony Callea’s home bedroom to surprise him with the good news. As the burst in he’s asleep under the covers of his bed and someone presumtiously rips the doona away. Almost as quickly, someone who looks like Anthony’s sister rushes to cover him back up again just in case Anthony liked to sleep Al Fresco.

At the time I thought that this is a nightmare-esque scenario. While I do sleep clothed, in a military grade union suit with a few non descript stains thanks for asking, the thought of someone cutting my sleep short with a camera crew and surprise news has prevented me from entering deep sleep since the original air date of the clip.

The other night I got to thinking that perhaps this isn’t my only reason for a restless sleep. In fact, it’s more likely inspired by the state of my mattress rather than the image of Anthony Callea’s “I Love Bacon” boxer shorts.

In its later years, my previous mattress doubled as a corkscrew and torture device for caught double agents, and by the time I suggested to my parents they might like to buy me a new bed at some point, my skin was starting to callous nicely. My parents didn’t decide to act on the matter until one saturday morning paper brought news of “MATTRESS SALE. LOTS! MATTRESS! CHEAP!”.

It seems in an effort to capture global markets, Captain Snooze was bought out by a small Eastern European settlement and renamed “Schnooze El Capitan”. We knocked three times, gave them the password through the darkened slot before we were let in and led around the mattresses on display. It wasn’t long before we sniffed out the bargain basement models up the back of the store. I was told I had a choice of three beds for one low price, which would be waived if we agreed to sponsor a visa or agreed to witness a false matrimony.

I tried the first bed. “This bed is too hard.” I tried the second bed. “Um, this bed is too hard.” The third bed offered few surprises. These beds weren’t just firm. These beds were lacking in springs and foam of any variety, instead relying on an interesting amalgam of steel and coal to form the comfort layer of padding on top. “Umm, are these all the same bed?” At this point, our upper lip-haired sales assistant launched into a tyrade against me. “You should be grateful your parents are even considering buying you a bed!” I saw her stop before she continued with “In My Country…” Well, I’m not expert on human rights, but I’m sure that parents have *some* responsibility to satisfy their children’s needs on at least the first tier of Maslow’s pyramid.

I was young, red-headed and forced into shopping, so chucking a tantrum was an immediate natural reaction I considered, but I really wasn’t sure that I wasn’t going to be taken out into the backroom and shipped back to our assistant’s home country as a slave. I pretended to bounce on each of the mattresses once again (here I utilised my then famous skill of being able to sit and bounce on any surface without using my hands or feet), before pointing very unspecifically in their general direction and saying “That one.”

“Ah, very good choice!” the furry woman commended. After my parents arranged the payment, they were given the delivery instructions. “Bring large truck. Knock on the red door 3 times, wait, and another 2 times. Must be after dark. If a man named Henrick shows up at your house with a knife in the future, show him the mattress and he’ll know what to do. You may need sewing kit.” And with that, the mattress was mine.

They say people develop very intimate relationships with their mattress. I guess I have spent a lot of time with mine, and though we may not be the best of friends, I have a certain love for my adopted ethnic son. People often mistake it as a sitting bench, which lends a summery feel to my bedroom. As an added bonus, if I sleep without sheets on, I wake up ready to do my best Jolson impersonation.