A selection of sights: MWF Week 1

The Boy Who Cried MWF

I was standing in the blank square of the Official Program for the MWF. If you were to look at the easy view guide, you would simply see the flat fibrous grey of news pulp. There was nothing written after 6PM in the BMW Edge Amphitheatre, but I promise you, there was indeed something within that blank panel. That something was the Official Launch Party for the festival.

I was pushing my way through the crowd, trying not to clack my rather ungainly glasses on the assortment of thick-framed black spectacles threatening to engulf me. I never do well in crowds. The voices in my head get particularly jealous competing to be heard over the throng chatter. A small girl in a bright outfit stopped me, asking if I was one of the Festival Bloggers. She introduced herself as Estelle, my keyboard colleague. Estelle explained that we were both updating the festival blog each day. This came as quite a relief. I had become increasingly paranoid I was somehow turning into a petite female book reviewer in my spare time. She was wearing a one-piece suit and held a large glass of red wine. Each sip of her glass brought her closer to a onesy toilet dilemna. She bravely drank on.

She began to talk to a gentleman in a cravat with matching wife accessory. He told us he was a famous poet who pioneered the field of scat haiku. I ventured to ask if that meant he simply said five bops, three diddleys and at least one pow. Everyone in the circle took one step to the left, inflicting a humiliating state of sans circleness.

I opted to locate the bar and bludgeon my shyness with wine. As I crossed the floor, I remembered the advice of an old friend. He had imparted that whenever you attended an important function, you should always find the best-dressed person and strike up a conversation. They would almost certainly be able to help you climb the success ladder that leads to the balcony of achievement. I stopped a man in an impossibly beautiful tuxedo and introduced myself. I quickly rattled off a list of interests and even dropped an anecdote about the time I met Keanu Reeves in the pool of a Sydney hotel. I’ll never forget Keanu’s expression. After warning him about diving into the deceptively shallow water, I attempted some humour by stating that the world already had one Reeves in a wheelchair and we didn’t need two. Keanu had actually been able to muster a real expression on his normally blank face. It was the performance of his life.

The man in the tuxedo rolled his eyes and asked whether I was going to take a spring roll from his tray or not. I yoinked a fistful and placed the hot tubes in my pants. I grabbed my first wine from the bar and approached a circle of well-dressed people. No one introduced themselves by their name. Instead they each yelled a publication title at me in quick succession. After the one next to me yelled The Age, I panicked over what to say and blurted out MWF. Except the editor in my head was mucked about by booze and the acronym came out phonetically.

After you yell MWOOF at a group of literary critics, you can pretty much kiss any hopes of scoring a job goodbye.

by Frenchelbow
Festival Blogger

Dead Under Fluorescent Lights