When you walk into a room, or a submarine or a coral atoll and people see you doing that and hence it is an entrance.
Have you ever made a good entrance? The kind that draws eyes to you in a good way and asserts your dominance of the situation or makes people swoon or want to give you their carefully hoarded candy? I haven’t. In fact, I’ve never even seen a good entrance.
The only person I know – and admittedly it’s not a close friendship, I’ve just been following his career from a distance – that consistently makes good entrances, is Batman. People say that Batman is better than Superman because he’s just a man, an average Joe billionaire, crime fighting, playboy/martial arts master who goes out there and gets the job done. That’s not entirely correct, though. Because I believe that Batman’s super-power is actually making dramatic entrances. Think about it, if he wasn’t able to do that, he’d just get shot a whole bunch.
|GOON 1: HOLY SHIT THAT WAS A GOOD ENTRANCE.
GOON 2: OUR GUNS ARE USELESS NOW!
LACK OF STARS:
I’ve made three bizarrely bad entrances in my life, that I’m aware of. Maybe there’s more, but these are the chronicled ones. These are in no particular order, so I’m going to need your help in rating which is the best/worst/audience choice/best newcomer. You’ll also see they are kind of themed.
Somewhere around my fourth or fifth year of university, I decided I would start studying dramaturgy, a subject in the Performance degree. This particular whim was never fully thought out, and never went anywhere, and I’d like to say it’s not because of the mortification of this particular day.
Due to the way the trains were structured, my morning classes were usually a frantic, heaving hustle to get from the train station, to the uni, buy my coffee and then get to class. Normally I wouldn’t be so blase as to try this on a day which happens to be my first class in a new subject. But because it was in the Creative Arts building, I felt a certain amount of arrogance. I knew that place like the back of my hand. Half an hour later, I stumbled into the classroom, which was actually a small auditorium, and around fifty odd people looked at me as I stood there, dishevelled, and despite the coffee in my hand, weaving a story about car troubles or something to that effect.
Lecturer clearly didn’t believe me, or care less, and she icily asked me to find a seat. The only spare ones were right up the back of the auditorium, so I pushed my way through, smiling broadly and sweating profusely.
As I sat down, I pulled up the swivelling side-desk doohickie on the side of the chair. You know what I’m talking about, the little tray in which you put your book and write notes on. I settled my coffee on it for a brief second, an extra large long black, while I set up my note taking items, because I’m the best student ever. Of course, the tray began to slide over, taking my coffee with it. I made a grab for the coffee, and was successful, but I overcompensated the strength of my grip and as I crushed it between my spindly fingers, the lid popped off and a flume of coffee spat over the auditorium, over five rows of peoples heads *splash, splash, splash, splash, splash* before spattering before the feet of the lecturer. Laughing maniacally, I gathered my things and left, never to return.
For a while, I lived in Caringbah, worked at Sydney Airport and studied at Wollongong, but lived at my long-suffering girlfriend’s house during the days that I had classes. It took over an hour for me to get to any of these places from any of the other, so my memories of that time were all about living out of multiple bags and dragging them all around like a matriculating nomadic camel.
It was also at the stage in my balls arts degree where I had no choice about what subjects I had to do in order to graduate, including Victorian women’s literature, taught by the Queen of the Frogs.
So, one day I’m sitting in this class, and I have about three bags stuffed full of crap, and I’m digging through them to find my notes to begin a presentation about some terrible poems and what they mean, and as everybody is waiting for me to begin, I finally pull out my folder with a triumphant wrench, only for an entire packet of condoms to explode out with it and scatter through the classroom.
Did I forget to mention I was the only male in this class?
There was this great group that I was a part of, called The Common Cold Poetry Collective, and our aim was to put on entertaining and stimulating poetry readings, full of live bands and funny, interactive poetry etc etc. One day we were doing a fairly small reading at a bar, and I could only make it half way through, so somebody had saved me a seat. I bought myself a beer, and then apologetically made me way over peoples knees and feet while the poor poet proceeded gamely with his reading. What was awkward, was this seat was right in the middle of the second row, so all eyes were on me, and to tell the honest truth, during poetry readings the slightest distraction is usually the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen.
So, I sit down, settle in and then take a large, celebratory sip of my beer.
Now, I’m no medical doctor, but there is some sort of reflex in my throat that seems to reject liquid at odd times. I’ve talked to people about this, and it seems fairly common. It’s not the same as choking, it’s in fact a lot more of a violent rejection than simple choking.
So, an explosive burst of beer erupts from my mouth and hits the guy in front of me. I have just spat a third of my beer into the back of his head. I also vaguely know him, but not well enough to make it any better.
But, because it’s a poetry reading, nobody says anything and I AM SAVED.
5/5 stars. I really love those stories.