Culture Clash

We have different tastes. Significantly different. Which is how we can go out and experience, in one evening, Improvisational Theatre, MacDonalds, coffee at a French restaurant, a comedy gig, a trashy, trashy nightclub and a cocktail lounge.

We have discovered that when we deign to do the things each other suggest, we actually both appreciate them, but in different ways. And we do so like to dissect all our opinions and interpretations as to why something was awesome, or why it was shit. And the funny thing is, we almost always agree on the overall outcome.

The outcome of Impro ACT was: 'no so great, actually'. Sorry dudes. Granted, we only saw a bit, and granted, we were just warming up for the night, but we were both in pretty good moods (to begin with, at least). We were open minded.

We realise that in committing such abrupt criticisms to paper (so to speak) we may be making you closed minded about Improv ACT. So be it. We reckon we are justified. The actors were enthusiastic, confident and charismatic, but were working so hard to keep the scenarios actually functioning that they didn't have any thespian energy left to make them funny. They should have had some actor-vite before the show (a caveat here--James makes bad jokes. A lot. he is the prince of paranomasia). IN retrospect, their website does not really inspire confidence. They write: "You'd have to be really clever to do this kind of stuff, wouldn't you? No way!"

Well, Improv was a Rachael thing. It was time then for a James thing. MacDonalds is quintessentially Jamesy. Having indulged in a large 'meal' (to use the term loosely) he proceeded to photograph his belly. We will not be posting those photos. MacDonalds was uneventful as always, except we noticed that the Braddon franchise chooses to distribute their 'flakes' (when sold sans-sundae) in a sundae cup. With lid. This is the first incarnation of this method of delivery we had seen--usually the vessel is a napkin or, if you're lucky, a small fries sachet. This left us deeply philosphical.

Ha.

Anyway, on then to Ardeche, Canberra City's most Honourabl[y] Mention[ed] French restaurant. According to a framed plate on the wall, anyway. Cappucino time. Now, if you're anticipating with bated breath and tingling loins a deep and broad analysis of Canberra's coffe culture we have to say at this point--we don't stray far from the sidewalk. James ALWAYS has a mocha. And Rachael almost always has a Chai Latte, and if she does have a coffee it's a decaf. And she has skim milk. We can't expound on anything more civilised than that, I'm afraid. Anyway, this time it was a mocha and a cappucino (non-decaf, for once, but with skim milk) and it was comme ci comme ca. The highlight of the experience was the setting--twilight sunshine filtered through umbrageous leaves, sounds of the city clinking and pattering and cooing (the pigeons, not the people). Tres romantique. Hit it up of an evening for the best outdoor cafe experience we have found on that side of the city. And expect to be treated brusquely by the manager. He's French. Tres authenique.

On to the Canberra Theatre for the Show Us Your Roots gig. Which was awesome. Catch it if you can. Sorry, you can't in Canberra for another year... but you should have a night out there anyway. The waiters at the bar are all out-of-work actors, and seem to be Method Acting up a storm. I have never had a more bartendy bartender. Don't dream it, dude. Be it. Take layers of clothing, though--the theatre is hothothot. Poor air circulation plus press of people = toasty shows. They sell mini ice-creams to try to ameliorate the torridity but charging $3 each for them probably makes most people even hotter under the collar. It was fitting with the theme of farce, though.

ICBM. Wow. Tackoir (it's French for tacky). If you feel like being hemmed in on all sides by wasted seventeen year olds you could go to ICBM or any suburban swingset on a Saturday night. But ICBM has a pool table, which is like totally waaay cooler than a slippery dip. The music is passable for a groove, however, and suits James' taste to a tee. Pussy Cat Dolls back-to-back with Will Smith. Sick as. Fully so.

Hot, though, and no cooling ice-cream, so we bailed after a little while. James has tonsils the size of Paraguay at the moment so we knew we were soon for bed. One more side-trip remained, however. Manuka. Refuge of the elite from Civic hoi poloi. Or so they like to think. As far as we can see one wanker is much the same as another, no matter where they decide to do their blockies, but Manuka is still a great atmosphere for all of that. We ascended the stairs to the fabulously decadent Julep Lounge. This place is opulent vintage atmosphere at its best. Rachael was very impressed. If she had a bigger flat, and that flat was actually a cocktail lounge, it's decor would be just the same. But she doesn't, so the Julep Lounge will do. 12 pages of drinks in the menu versus one page of food--that kind of place has our vote. And the DJ was exemplary--mixing 'Take a Walk on the Wild Side' with 'Jumbo Jumbo' was just genius, in our opinion. Word-up to Julep.

Overall, a most excellent evening. We are off to Trash and Treasure, Chinese New Year and Tropfest tomorrow, so til then,

Ta ta from James and Rachael.