🌀 12: Not of End Times, But of Better Times

This week me and Chelsea, my housemate, tidied and rearranged our little apartment balcony, letting our gorgeous curb-side-outdoor-furniture-haul shine. In the days since (literally like three days ago) I’ve spent hours sitting out here. It’s so lovely.

From here, I can smell something which resembles a tasty packet curry wafting over from one of the neighbours, the pilates studio opposite our apartment block is busy with a revolving door of athleisure-clad divas carrying, and a tired bee rests by my feet next to a plate of sugar syrup I’ve left out for it. I used a leftover flyer from the festival to fashion a little ramp for the little diva, and now he’s just sniffing around, biding his time. Beautiful.

This week’s newsletter title comes from an article I’ve linked below from Naomi Klein and Astra Taylor. It’s about the armageddon-flavoured fascism that’s all the rage at the moment, and a way out of this dystopia. It makes for gorgeous, prescient, and terrifying reading. I can’t wait for you to hear more about it.

In this final week of Comedy Festival, Georgie and I took things a bit slower—opting to stay home for the weekend to catch a breath. I won’t be hitting my goal of 69 shows but you know what—I’m having fun and not burning out.

Let’s get into the reviews.

Banglord by Sofie Hagen was one of the shows I was most looking forward to this festival, perhaps because of Hagen’s staunch politics of fat liberation. Their advocacy around seat widths in venues is particularly great (so f*cking necessary in this festival, I’m looking at you Motley Bauhaus Theatrette). This hour-long set covers their perspectives on gender, sex, and fatness for a well-rounded (ha) primer on their practice.

I had fun and certainly laughed, but it wasn’t the transformative experience I thought it might be. A fat performance artist I know once made the point that because fat liberation is so taboo, fat performance often caters for an audience with almost no understanding of it—leading to work which is all Fat Lib 101. While I loved Hagen, I wish I had gotten to see a comedy as radical as their politics and writing. Maybe next time.

Actually Kinda Hot by Chris Demos is a satisfyingly constructed hour of jokes about being a lawyer, dating in a plus-size body, and coming from a Greek family. Demos edges us with his stories, flittering from one to another for great comic effect—plus keeping us on the edge of our seats.

I think it’s hard for me to review Demos’ work unbiased because a lot of the topics he discusses are things I’ve had to navigate myself—how do queer fat men find love in this world? What does it mean to be sexy as a fat person?

The conclusions I’ve come to are different to what Demos’ set arrives at. For one, Demos avoids the term fat, whereas that’s my preferred label. Another joke highlights a discomfort with compliments about the unique features of a fat body, pointing to the ways that fat bodies are objectified in the sexual marketplace—but I think some of this humour misses the forest for the trees. In his own show description he writes “Actually Kinda Hot isn't the compliment we think it is.” Perhaps it isn’t, but it reveals far more about the person saying it than it does about bodies like mine, because to be f*cking real with you—I am actually kinda hot, just like Chris Demos.

All this isn’t to say I didn’t enjoy Demos’ show—it’s great fun and Demos is undeniably an affable storyteller with a penchant for satisfying punchlines.

Despair is Beneath Us by Laura Davis is possibly my favourite standup this festival (an opinion not necessarily shared by all). Davis has a knack for transmuting what keeps us (and them) up at night into a reason to keep going—into a sense that what is, will become what was—that right now isn’t forever. They have a frenetic and zigzagging way of getting at their points, ricocheting from joke to joke. At times it felt like we were completely off track, but a deft denouement pulled their worldview into focus; as dark as today may be, our work will make a better tomorrow. Maybe it wasn’t the best technical comedy of the festival, but instead Davis’ latest show offers something much more refreshing and healing. Exactly what I needed.

Escape From Heck Island by Con Coutis is a fun hour of what Coutis does best, slick audio slapstick paired with tongue-in-cheek genre parody. This year we’re stuck in a maximum security prison together with Con, aiding and abetting in his escape. As fun and highly polished as this set is, I can’t help but feel that Coutis is resting on his laurels with this latest show. It’s more of what he’s great at, but with very little experimentation or novelty I’m not sure I can recommend it to folks who’ve seen Coutis before. Although if you’re new to Coutis’ work—it’s a helluva great time.

Bigfoot: In Plain Sight by Handful of Bugs bills itself as an adaptation of a fictional memoir about a Bigfoot hunter. I grew up in Sasquatch country so was immediately hooked, and obsessed by Alex Donnelly‘s stupidly camp physical comedy. For what amounts to a tiny show in a closet, there’s a shockingly satisfying amount of theatrical trickery and design. This show explodes off the stage and it’s beautiful to see.

If you had to ask me what the show was about, I would hazard that it’s examining authorial intent, and the way that queer folks reconfigure existing texts to make their own meanings and utopias. Bigfoot seems to suggest that queers can make themselves at home in the canon, turning stories about cryptids into queer comings-of-age filled with hairy men cruising in the bushes. It’s a stretch, but somewhere in this hilarious camp mess is a rousing case that the artist is dead, and might’ve never existed in the first place.

The Splash Zone by Zoë Coombs Marr isn’t as experimental as her last show but there’s heaps to love in Marr’s return to conventional standup. This set explores their childhood in a regional town, their keen ability to talk to strangers, and a bamboozling experience with a couple Trump supporters, setting us up for a tender reflection on how to bridge contemporary divides. Plus, there’s a joke in here about a kangaroo which may just be the hardest I’ve laughed this festival.

Welcome To My Dream from Kiwi comic Abby Howells is a delightfully dry hour about Howell’s return to comedy, enemies in an improv troupe, and a particularly devastating breakup. Howells’ offbeat (autistic) humour absolutely tickled me and their commitment to bits which satisfy themselves first and the audience second is as refreshing as it is charming. Great fun.

Chloe Petts was one of my favourite acts of the festival last year, and How You See Me, How You Don't affirms their status as one of my must-see comedians. This year’s set follows their experiences being trolled online, becoming a TV football commentator, and being closeted in high school. Petts is unflappable, riffing delectably through a couple disturbances from our audience, and their crass takes on gender and sexuality are a satisfying point of difference.

Petts’ hour explores the effects of conservative attacks on queer folks and gives themself the chance to get the final word in. And even though none of the trolls might’ve been in the audience it still made for an incredible moment of queer healing. Petts is to queers what I imagine Jimmy Carr is for cis-hetero-man—not that I’d know. But god, I can’t get enough of their acerbic wit.

They/Hehe by trans masc comic Han Arbuthnott is a charming sophomore hour about relationships, ancestors, and the cis man they could’ve been born as. Han is incredibly personable and brimming with charisma which makes them so easy to watch. These jokes are bawdy and corny in the best way, reaffirming Han’s status as an immaculate purveyor of dad jokes. If there was anything to critique in this set, it’s that it ended far too abruptly and quickly—Han’s buoyant and playful presence is too much of a respite from the world for me to want to return to it.

The Wedding by Andy Balloch is a satisfying hour of character comedy tied together in a brilliant theatrical conceit; that we’re all guests at his friends wedding reception. Balloch’s longstanding contributions to Melbourne’s queer comedy scene aren’t to be understated, and this beautiful story is one of the clearest examples of that.

Balloch artfully grapples with an Australia in which under a decade ago 40% of us voted against same-sex marriage, and one in which today we’re banning trans kids from accessing healthcare—examining the ways that queers find each other, how we fit into our families, and what to make of this country.

Balloch’s jokes turn the mess of this country into a pocket of queer utopia, using every character and prop in vivid and electrifying detail. It’s a genuine tearjerker of a comedy, so rigorous and damning in its hilarious portraits of ourselves. A must see, which is why it’s rightfully nommed for the Golden Gibbo.

Despite having the worst handwriting imaginable and no clue how to draw, I love physical media so so so much. That’s probably why I enjoyed this interview with a zine-maker about her practice of creating zines from internet apocrypha.

Burek explains how important this sort of personal documentation of the internet is:

So even though long time periods can pass, and you’re interacting with it in a different way, it’s still important to preserve these parts of the internet. I think preserving it is fun: anyone’s experience on the internet is universal, but the way that you connect to it is different.

Something about the transition from digital to physical is very exciting, particularly when positioned as a rejection of the ephemerality of the feed.

This next article is a slog. It’s a long read delving into the apocalyptic fascism that’s taken over America. But—the ending is worth it.

Klein and Taylor carefully chart all the players in (mostly) American politics, looking at how their obsession with the end of days is an abjection of the possibility of a better world today. It’s a terrifying elucidation of something we’re all probably feeling, but Klein and Taylor end their writeup with an overview of ways out of this world:

We counter their apocalyptic narratives with a far better story about how to survive the hard times ahead without leaving anyone behind. A story capable of draining end times fascism of its gothic power and galvanizing a movement ready to put it all on the line for our collective survival. A story not of end times, but of better times; not of separation and supremacy, but of interdependence and belonging; not of escaping, but staying put and staying faithful to the troubled earthly reality in which we are enmeshed and bound.

They point to some thinkers imagining other ways of being in this world, including the Yiddish concept of Doikayt:

Molly Crabapple, who has written a forthcoming book about this neglected history, defines Doikayt as the [Jewish] right to “fight for freedom and safety in the places where they lived, in defiance of everyone who wanted them dead” – and rather than be forced to flee to safety in Palestine or the United States. Perhaps what is needed is a modern-day universalization of that concept: a commitment to the right to the “hereness” of this particular ailing planet, to these frail bodies, to the right to live in dignity wherever on the planet we are, even when the inevitable shocks forces us to move. “Hereness” can be portable, free of nationalism, rooted in solidarity, respectful of indigenous rights and unbounded by borders.

It’s good. Here can be better. Can get better. Will get better.

And on a lighter note, an article about sh*tposting in academia, and sh*tposting as academia.

Rauchberg satisfyingly overanalyses some memes of her own making, writing about one that:

Ultimately, the argument I make in the meme is two-fold: Instagram’s platform logics reinforce these public/private binaries, which are shown through the comparison between trash sorting and deciding which types of content belong on specific accounts. Moreover, the idea of “good” content versus “bad content” results in self-surveillance from users themselves—is this post enough for the platform? Will I be seen, or will I be censored and hidden by Instagram’s algorithmic recommendation infrastructure? 

Jumping forward to her fascinating conclusion:

In this way, I understand sh*tposting as media spaces where we dump our extra stuff: our desires, our relationships with precarious labor, the pressures to be productive, to be normal, to be public. Within these leaky boundaries, sh*tposts afford us a respite, where we play alongside the fuzzy and faded liminalities that shape the extensions of ourselves. 

• So this article is titled “Yes, Shrimp Matter” and it’s an overview of the the state of global shrimp welfare and one finance guy’s reasons for joining the fight. I had no clue how cruel shrimp farming is, nor the scale at which it operates—but now, f*ck, we gotta save the shrimp y’all!
• It’s eye-poppingly frustrating how spiteful all this transphobic bullsh*t is. As evidenced in this interview with Red Sullivan, a trans fencer who recently had an opponent refuse to fence her, leading to that fencer’s disqualification from the tournament.
• A profile on Jay Graber, the CEO of Bluesky (join me there). Interestingly enough her given Mandarin name means ‘blue sky’. Heaps of fascinating details on her work which leaves me with a fair bit of optimism for the future of the internet.
• This essay re-examines the cultural impact of Like a G6, placing it in the context of a movement which allowed “Asian diasporic art to be crude, silly, and maybe even a little obnoxious.”

With two Melbourne Fringe venue applications submitted I turned my sights to the mundane task of organising the work we need to do to pull these shows off.

Enter my perennial favourite project management tool, Basecamp, which I spent a good hour or two filling with all the tools we’ll need for our journey.

It feels good to just sit down and build out your to-do list. Just having an overview of the work ahead makes it feel a lot more manageable—and exciting. I’m keen to dig in and it now feels like I have the structural support to do it well.

On Saturday I attended a Stage Management seminar which was pretty interesting, particularly going in as someone with zero experience SMing. I loved hearing from three established SMs about their creative practices and how they contribute artistically to the works they manage.

I’m probably not going to be pursuing SMing, but it was nice to recognise how porous the barrier between production management and stage management can be, and to contextualise some of the work I’ve done as SM adjacent.

All up, a lovely seminar. We love learning, and we love SMs.

Back to the bee.

He’s wandered away from my water and sugar syrup to hide in the crevice of the balcony railing. He’s not looking good. Writhing and wriggling around—seems like his wings don’t work.

The internet says I have to let the bee rest. That sometimes they die and there’s not much I can do about it. This bee’s looking a little worse for wear, and I think it might be the end. I’m not sure what to do so I‘ll sit here with him. At least he’s not alone?

It feels like some cruel twist on telling the bees, but I can’t quite tell what to make of it yet.