Confessions are rarely painless, but right now I harbor little remorse. Attending bodyboarding film premieres has never been an impassioned pastime of mine. I have developed a tolerance to unwarranted hype and from my experience, the audience is often too wary to sweep me into a state of panting enthusiasm.
That pea-hearted justification is indirectly to blame for my uncomfortably sunburnt face and the reason I am speed eating my banana muffin dinner whilst driving. The movie is scheduled to start momentarily and I am still a frustrating distance from the venue.
Tonight however, I intend to remove all apathy from my system. Upon my arrival, three young ladies greet me at the door and politely issue me a ticket. Impressive tans, and teeth. Their arresting beauty is like an ass massage before my colon detox.
Rob is in good spirits after a prosperous opening night in his home town earlier in the week, wandering with reassuring nonchalance. He wears I Am None, top and bottoms. It is not the summer range but still culturally appropriate. The ensemble is adorned warmly with a debonair overcoat, and a beer - maybe his third, rests leisurely in his hand.
The bar is to the right of the makeshift theatre, and it is gravely lacking character. Chairs are arranged in an informal fashion, beneath a large projector screen which remains lifeless until the guests assume their seats. Tonight's attendance, I am told, is comparatively unflattering to Monday's screening. Amoungst the faces is a suave Garth Mcgregor who looks less threatening, yet still very unapproachable minus the facial hair.
The lights are dimmed fashionably late. A film by...........Robert Sherwood. Alex Bunting is applying sunscreen. Clouds are moving very fast. James Nymeyer is smoking?
On my left, Dallas is maybe discussing the merits of the film with its creator. Their conversation is muffled by the deafening wail of Thom Yorke. Dallas nods. Rob smiles.
Pierre and Amaury surf extremely well. The south coast is kind to them, so they spit in gravity's face. Their is a brief pause of uncomfortable nothingness between chapters, creating an opportune moment of silence to shout out personal jokes and behave with exaggerated fervor.
At a brisk twenty five minutes in length, some will be left unsatisfied. Optimists will be revitalized. As the credits roll, the majority of critique is directed at Rob's inexperience, but most are happy to shrug this off as an invaluable learning curve. An impression has been stamped, and emerging talent duly noted.
A small contingent migrate to the leagues club ten minutes across town. In the confusingly themed bistro, schnitzel and noodles are ordered. The service is gauche and the food forgettable. Conversation evolves fluently from virgin film making to the art of deflowering the purest of females.
Wade Masters, star of chapter six, recalls a nostalgic evening in the company of a fair maiden.
"That feels really good, but I think I'm going to pee." he mimics.
"No honey. That's an orgasm."
Click here to order a copy of Nothing.
That pea-hearted justification is indirectly to blame for my uncomfortably sunburnt face and the reason I am speed eating my banana muffin dinner whilst driving. The movie is scheduled to start momentarily and I am still a frustrating distance from the venue.
Tonight however, I intend to remove all apathy from my system. Upon my arrival, three young ladies greet me at the door and politely issue me a ticket. Impressive tans, and teeth. Their arresting beauty is like an ass massage before my colon detox.
Rob is in good spirits after a prosperous opening night in his home town earlier in the week, wandering with reassuring nonchalance. He wears I Am None, top and bottoms. It is not the summer range but still culturally appropriate. The ensemble is adorned warmly with a debonair overcoat, and a beer - maybe his third, rests leisurely in his hand.
The bar is to the right of the makeshift theatre, and it is gravely lacking character. Chairs are arranged in an informal fashion, beneath a large projector screen which remains lifeless until the guests assume their seats. Tonight's attendance, I am told, is comparatively unflattering to Monday's screening. Amoungst the faces is a suave Garth Mcgregor who looks less threatening, yet still very unapproachable minus the facial hair.
The lights are dimmed fashionably late. A film by...........Robert Sherwood. Alex Bunting is applying sunscreen. Clouds are moving very fast. James Nymeyer is smoking?
On my left, Dallas is maybe discussing the merits of the film with its creator. Their conversation is muffled by the deafening wail of Thom Yorke. Dallas nods. Rob smiles.
Pierre and Amaury surf extremely well. The south coast is kind to them, so they spit in gravity's face. Their is a brief pause of uncomfortable nothingness between chapters, creating an opportune moment of silence to shout out personal jokes and behave with exaggerated fervor.
At a brisk twenty five minutes in length, some will be left unsatisfied. Optimists will be revitalized. As the credits roll, the majority of critique is directed at Rob's inexperience, but most are happy to shrug this off as an invaluable learning curve. An impression has been stamped, and emerging talent duly noted.
A small contingent migrate to the leagues club ten minutes across town. In the confusingly themed bistro, schnitzel and noodles are ordered. The service is gauche and the food forgettable. Conversation evolves fluently from virgin film making to the art of deflowering the purest of females.
Wade Masters, star of chapter six, recalls a nostalgic evening in the company of a fair maiden.
"That feels really good, but I think I'm going to pee." he mimics.
"No honey. That's an orgasm."
Click here to order a copy of Nothing.
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