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Add page to: Add page to: The other day I caught up with my renewed aquaintance and dear friend to see some theatre group kill stories by a quirky author that we both enjoy. Well, I enjoy the author but I think it is quite safe to say my friend is some light years beyond enjoyment. Obsession, maybe. Which is why, even though she knew it was not going to be that great, she *had* to go. Me? I have no excuse. I just went. Sometimes, you have to.
After the massacre, our random group of nears and dears and newly made aquaintances, stood around and compared notes on what we wanted to do to that annoying woman in the audience who showed no discrimination and just laughed at everything. Even the stuff that was not meant to be funny. Some people have no idea. A pointless exercise, really. Because we are all law abiding citizens and some of our more appropriate suggestions were probably outside of the law.
You can't just stand on the footpath, sighing over how the plays just didn't work and dissing other members of the audience, (no matter how enjoyable it is). It is uncool. Plus, you're likely to be done for loitering. So we decide to move on. To a great little atmospheric coffee house. In another suburb. Nowhere within walking distance appeals and some of our group are almost falling asleep on their feet. We need comfort. And coffee. We pile into cars.
Actually... let me rephrase. There were two cars. Newly found dear friend, the groom whose wedding she is going to be best man in and the friend I turned up to the event with pile into a car with driver 1. I get the passenger seat in driver 2's car without having to squabble over seating or use any skill to obtain the seat of my choice. (Not that I am a person who fights for the front seat, but if I was, I wouldn't have had to anyway - Driver 2 and I are it). It might [suspiciously, to some] appear as though those who knew Driver No. 2 (we shall call him 'Mr Surreal') were dubious about his driving, and perhaps had briefed my other friend in my absence about 'the art of driving according to Mr S'. Or not. But it is possible.
Get in, shut the door, put on seat belt when VRRRROOOOOMMMMMMMMMM engine starts and I am thrown back into my seat (in my head I praise the person who invented seatbelts), we were not even in the traffic proper yet. sigh. I was cool with this though. It is quite normal even. Especially when you are with a crowd who have been at the V8's all day, in the sun, watching cars go around fast. As I thump firmly back into my seat, I chance to look up and see the mini disco ball hanging from the rear vision mirror. "Uh-oh, I think".
Uh-oh. Hah! What did I know. Minutes later we are heading to our destination, with engines roaring, and no doubt, environmentalists cringing in our wake. Mr S looks over, "DO YOU LIKE OINGO-BOINGO?", he yells over the sound of the engine. Oingo Boingo! I laugh. Hysterically. Aren't they that band from the 80's or ealry 90's?. Surely not. But there is time to ponder it too deeply, because they ARE the band from the 80's and their songs are blaring loudly from the stereo. Mr S enthuastically sings along and taps away at the dash as he tips his head back to give the chorus the full artistic tribute it deserves. I'm ok with this, I think quietly. Really. I'am. Normal night for me. Yup. Nothing slightly out of the normal here. Not even oingo boingo. No siree.
I have just about convinced myself that this is just another regular evening, when Mr S suddenly reaches over and starts searching by touch for something in the glove box. His eyes gleam triumphantly as he grabs something. Something, indeed. Yes. A small gyrating Elvis that he smacks on the dash in front of him.
Aaaiiiiieeeee! Breathe... breathe... breathe. Yes, that's it. I look out the window. And back. Elvis is still there.
The disco ball. Yes. Oingo-boingo, maybe. Elvis, maybe. The whole lot at once blended with the joyous singing of Mr S... highly surreal. I spent the rest of the trip trying to make contact with the real universe.
We pull up close to our destination, I get out, wait while Mr S does whatever it is a driver does before they get out of a car and then we head across the street to the atmospheric coffee house where the others are waiting for us. I mutter, quite loudly really, "Surreal". This was not uttered as an insult, rather an exclamation of my perception of the experience. His friends try and convince me that there is nothing odd about the experience. Of course they have known Mr S for some years and so probably are quite used to it. Even the surreal can become common place if you are used to it. Really.
We go into the coffee house, which has a kind of theme. An eclectic and unique one. It is not one of these mass-produced gimmick coffee chain places, this is the real thing. We discuss the evening, theme cafe's (Mr S things a dental theme would be a goer with patrons sitting in dental chairs - up, down, up, back... etc; dental napkins with silver chains; suction hose to remove crumbs - you get the picture). We drink coffee, some of us consume food and we all head off in our own directions. Weekend ensues.
Monday I chat with my friend. Our mutual aquaintance. She informs me that Mr S was very insulted that I thought he was surreal, a fact his friends found amusing. They were all at the cars together. Mr S is complaining about being called Surreal. People drink beer at the races, yell out "show us ya tits love" (not my friends, but you know, the general crowd. I am generalising, I hate it, but there are enough people like that at the venue to justify the stereotyping for Grud's sake, and it does add weight to the story and provide a setting. So get over it. Anyway... Mr S is complaining, sipping coffee, and apparently as the day gets later (he did not have much sleep over the previous days and that may help explain), he starts muttering (at innocent passers-by minding their own business), "Surreal". Uh-huh. And which part of that is not surreal? (I believe the term we are looking for is 'projection').
Addendum: I did send Mr S, via our mutual friend, an email with the dictionary definition of Surreal from dictionary.com and notations about why I thought he fit that description. Did he sigh, and say "Ok, so you got me, I am surreal. Oh no. We had several emails on the subject but this stopped because neither of us were getting anywhere... other than amused. Which is not a bad place to be really.