Hey gang,
If you're interested in travel, why not check out my latest article on Krakow, featured in the November issue of the YHA Backpackers' Essentials magazine.
There's also an extended piece - for online readers only - on the Auschwitz-Birkenau extermination camp.
Also, the November issue of Brisbane Affair magazine hits the shelves in a few days, and features two contributions from me - a travel piece on Vanuatu, and a profile of local artist Graham Davis. There's a sneek peak of the magazine online, but you'll have to pop out and purchase a copy if you wish to read my contributions.
This year I made the decision I wanted to do more writing for print and be published. Normally my goals get tossed aside fairly quickly, along with the "eat less junk, exercise more" pledge I make to myself every seven or eight minutes. So I'm fairly happy I've managed to achieve this particular goal. Now all I have to do is keep my finger in every pie, the ball in my court, the stone rolling and the shoe on the other foot.
Or something.
Oct 31, 2007
Oct 25, 2007
Boring you all with my Tunnel Vision
Being the intrepid news hound that I am, I decided to clock on over an hour early today in order to take advantage of a media tour of the Greatest Infrastructure Project Of Our Time: the North-South Bypass Tunnel.
More specifically, to have a squiz at the biggest, most phallic piece of industrial machinery since Sex and the City's infamous "Rabbit" - the Tunnel Boring Machine (TBM). This mighty, 4000-tonne, 256m long probe will soon be joined by its twin, and the pair will be thrust into the "Brisbane Tuff" rock that lies under the river, cutting a hole 12.4 metres in diameter and lining it as it goes. Power-burrowing at a rate of 20 metres per day, they should help get the tunnel be ready to go by 2010.
Did I mention they're the largest double-shield TBMs in the world? And that - in a twist of irony that will put your back out - they're referred to in the feminine, like ships? "She'll be right/She'll be ready", that sort of thing. I guess the blokes in charge might feel a bit weird if they sat atop that bad boy, Dr Strangelove-style, whooping and cheering as "he" plunged "his" giant mechanical wang into Mother Earth's crust.
Ew.
So enough with the imagery; it's time for some imagery. Say hello to fearless Girl Clumsy, Reporter-at-Large:
Large being the operative word. Everyone else got a fitted orange vest with the construction company's logo neatly stitched onto the breast. The woman responsible for kitting us out took one look at me and slung me an XXL number with NO side fastening, no pockets, and NO logo. I looked like a freaking radioactive elephant. Pair that with the brand new yet two sizes too big Blundstone gumboots and I was truly a picture of grace and poise. "Clomp", I believe, is the most appropriate word. I swear to God construction people are running a conspiracy against me.
Look at this - the start of one of the tunnels, those golden, shimmering tunnels that are going to Save Brisbane from Traffic Hell. The long tubes are temporary ventilation pipes. The still camera cannot capture the breezy way they bounce, in a wave-form, as if they can't wait to breathe life into this new project. Gosh, that's a bit wanky, isn't it?
So that was my afternoon clomping around a major construction site. I'd do more of these photo essays if a) it wasn't such a pain in the ample arse uploading them to Blogger, and b) I had more frequent visits to interesting places. But wait! I am off to Melbourne tomorrow to perform in an improv festival. Huzzah! This shall surely provide photo fodder...
More specifically, to have a squiz at the biggest, most phallic piece of industrial machinery since Sex and the City's infamous "Rabbit" - the Tunnel Boring Machine (TBM). This mighty, 4000-tonne, 256m long probe will soon be joined by its twin, and the pair will be thrust into the "Brisbane Tuff" rock that lies under the river, cutting a hole 12.4 metres in diameter and lining it as it goes. Power-burrowing at a rate of 20 metres per day, they should help get the tunnel be ready to go by 2010.
Did I mention they're the largest double-shield TBMs in the world? And that - in a twist of irony that will put your back out - they're referred to in the feminine, like ships? "She'll be right/She'll be ready", that sort of thing. I guess the blokes in charge might feel a bit weird if they sat atop that bad boy, Dr Strangelove-style, whooping and cheering as "he" plunged "his" giant mechanical wang into Mother Earth's crust.
Ew.
So enough with the imagery; it's time for some imagery. Say hello to fearless Girl Clumsy, Reporter-at-Large:
Large being the operative word. Everyone else got a fitted orange vest with the construction company's logo neatly stitched onto the breast. The woman responsible for kitting us out took one look at me and slung me an XXL number with NO side fastening, no pockets, and NO logo. I looked like a freaking radioactive elephant. Pair that with the brand new yet two sizes too big Blundstone gumboots and I was truly a picture of grace and poise. "Clomp", I believe, is the most appropriate word. I swear to God construction people are running a conspiracy against me.
The photo doesn't really do it justice, does it? Let's go bigger:
Here's our Lord Mayor, "Can Do" Campbell Newman, former engineer and all round eager beaver when it comes to big machinery. He's receiving a briefing on the giant borer below.
Voila! The giant TBM from the front:
Look at this - the start of one of the tunnels, those golden, shimmering tunnels that are going to Save Brisbane from Traffic Hell. The long tubes are temporary ventilation pipes. The still camera cannot capture the breezy way they bounce, in a wave-form, as if they can't wait to breathe life into this new project. Gosh, that's a bit wanky, isn't it?
So that was my afternoon clomping around a major construction site. I'd do more of these photo essays if a) it wasn't such a pain in the ample arse uploading them to Blogger, and b) I had more frequent visits to interesting places. But wait! I am off to Melbourne tomorrow to perform in an improv festival. Huzzah! This shall surely provide photo fodder...
Oct 23, 2007
Of Writing and Typing
Due to a number of fairly positive career-related things that have been happening in my life of late (of which I should probably give details, but I don't want to count my free-range chickens before they become viable organic poulty meat) - the suggestion was put to me by The Wah recently that I should invest in a lap top computer.
Now The Wah proffered this suggestion to me quite enthusiastically, which makes me somewhat suspicious that he's fairly keen to get his hands one of those portable bad boys himself. However, it's an interesting point. If, as I hope, I may be able to get semi-regular writing work, perhaps it is a piece of technology I should investigate. Considering I have a home computer, the Wah's home computer, and numerous work computers to take advantage of, and considering I'm still in hock paying off the plasma TV, the emergency dishwasher and my body corporates, it's not something I need straight away.
But I thought I'd put it out there. Do any readers/bloggers out there own laptops? Which kind? What would you recommend? Despite The Wah's life-long nose-upturning at Apple, he actually suggested a MacBook might be best for my purposes - which would be primarily words, music, photos, and maybe a bit of video editing. I'm not a computer gamer (especially not with a shiny happy Wii in the living room), so I don't need whiz bang graphics or sound, just enough that everything looks pretty. Yes, I am that much of a girl.
So please, everyone out there in Blogger land, let me know your recommendations: brand, price, memory, hard drive size, processor, keyboards, sexiness etc etc.
Now The Wah proffered this suggestion to me quite enthusiastically, which makes me somewhat suspicious that he's fairly keen to get his hands one of those portable bad boys himself. However, it's an interesting point. If, as I hope, I may be able to get semi-regular writing work, perhaps it is a piece of technology I should investigate. Considering I have a home computer, the Wah's home computer, and numerous work computers to take advantage of, and considering I'm still in hock paying off the plasma TV, the emergency dishwasher and my body corporates, it's not something I need straight away.
But I thought I'd put it out there. Do any readers/bloggers out there own laptops? Which kind? What would you recommend? Despite The Wah's life-long nose-upturning at Apple, he actually suggested a MacBook might be best for my purposes - which would be primarily words, music, photos, and maybe a bit of video editing. I'm not a computer gamer (especially not with a shiny happy Wii in the living room), so I don't need whiz bang graphics or sound, just enough that everything looks pretty. Yes, I am that much of a girl.
So please, everyone out there in Blogger land, let me know your recommendations: brand, price, memory, hard drive size, processor, keyboards, sexiness etc etc.
Oct 18, 2007
The Great Debaters
Did anybody else get stung by that great primary school joke: "If an English teacher's an English debater and a Science teacher's a Science debater, then what's a Maths Teacher?"
Cue barrels of laughs when the unsuspecting victim promptly replied "Maths Debater". Except when the unsuspecting victim was me, age 11, with no actual idea of why being a "Maths Debater" was a bad, or at the very least, funny thing. Once it was eventually explained to me, through interpretive gesturing, I made sure to commit that particular joke to memory to ensure I would never be the red-faced fool again.
It didn't help me a year later when one of the "cool" girls mentioned something called a "head job", and turned on me when it became obvious I had no idea what she was talking about. I tried to cover by pretending that I had been pretending not to know. I think I got away with it.
But enough of reminiscing about crude linguistic discoveries: my point is, John Howard and Kevin Rudd will be facing off this Sunday night in a Great Debate. An all-in cage match, no less, with the Ruddster set to be brought on by Jerry "The King" Lawlor yelling "Do you SMELL what the RUDD is cooking?" and the PM carried into the ring in a coffin, then raised from the dead, Undertaker-style. The Greens, however, won't be there - Bob Brown will apparently be holding his own debate against a sock puppet he calls "Little Johnny".*
Well, that's the kind of Great Debating I'd like to see on Sunday night. But somehow I don't think we're going to get that. In fact, I'd be surprised if we even got high school-level debating. And I know a bit about high school debating.
You see, I was Debating Captain come Year 12, after four exhausting years on the Circuit Debating, um, circuit. Many people consider Debating an extremely daggy high school past time, but damnit, we were hot shit - at least next to the chess club guys. But nerdism had little to do with my experience of debating. In senior years, our debates were "short prep", which meant you got the topic at 7pm, and started the debate at 8pm. Rock on. Me and my teammates James and Bree, with Alisha onboard on the odd occasion, would spend the first half hour farting about, cracking jokes and thinking up a good "theme" for the debate. As first and second speakers respectively, Jimmy and I would then divvy up the pertinent points, while Bree had a panic attack about what she would do as third speaker. The answer was of course, what she always did: madly summarise our team's points while simultaneously coming up with errors to throw back in our opponents' faces. All three of us would get up and proceed to slag off the opposite team, in the nicest way possible, of course. James was best at this - he was a natural charmer and would have all the parents in the audience going "Ooh, isn't he just a devil?"
I just wish I could tune in to Channel Nine next Sunday and see not the " worm", but Kevin Rudd in a striped blazer and tie pin. Doesn't he just LOOK like the kind of guy who'd pull out colour-coded palm cards? And as for Johnny, he'd be the one (cause there's always one) quietly scoffing at every point an opposing speaker tries to make, then getting busted by the adjudicator for making his attacks "too personal".
At least it would be fun to watch. I doubt a couple of hours of relentless carping on in the Parliament House Great Hall is going to turn too many of the plebs away from Andrew G's latest shocking haircut on Australian Idol. Hey there's a thought. Maybe instead of the "worm", we could have an SMS vote, a la Idol or Dancing with the Stars. The 55c text costs could be donated to charity, and either Johnny or Kevie would end up voted out, publicly shamed, with nought but a teary Marcia Hines to turn to for understanding.
See, I've got incisive political commentary sewn up. I still can't believe I wasn't asked to be on the panel of respected journalists who'll pepper the pollies with prickly propositions. Laurie Oaks could've asked about interest rates, David Speers about industrial relations, then I could've taken over with a "Brangelina - will it last?" corker. Then we'll see who's got their fingers on the pulse of this wide, brown land.
Oh, and if anyone could fill me in on what a "head job" actually is, I'd be ever so grateful.
*These references could mystify anyone who didn't regularly catch the then-WWF wrestling circa 1998-2002, before all the drug-related murder-suicides and stuff.
Cue barrels of laughs when the unsuspecting victim promptly replied "Maths Debater". Except when the unsuspecting victim was me, age 11, with no actual idea of why being a "Maths Debater" was a bad, or at the very least, funny thing. Once it was eventually explained to me, through interpretive gesturing, I made sure to commit that particular joke to memory to ensure I would never be the red-faced fool again.
It didn't help me a year later when one of the "cool" girls mentioned something called a "head job", and turned on me when it became obvious I had no idea what she was talking about. I tried to cover by pretending that I had been pretending not to know. I think I got away with it.
But enough of reminiscing about crude linguistic discoveries: my point is, John Howard and Kevin Rudd will be facing off this Sunday night in a Great Debate. An all-in cage match, no less, with the Ruddster set to be brought on by Jerry "The King" Lawlor yelling "Do you SMELL what the RUDD is cooking?" and the PM carried into the ring in a coffin, then raised from the dead, Undertaker-style. The Greens, however, won't be there - Bob Brown will apparently be holding his own debate against a sock puppet he calls "Little Johnny".*
Well, that's the kind of Great Debating I'd like to see on Sunday night. But somehow I don't think we're going to get that. In fact, I'd be surprised if we even got high school-level debating. And I know a bit about high school debating.
You see, I was Debating Captain come Year 12, after four exhausting years on the Circuit Debating, um, circuit. Many people consider Debating an extremely daggy high school past time, but damnit, we were hot shit - at least next to the chess club guys. But nerdism had little to do with my experience of debating. In senior years, our debates were "short prep", which meant you got the topic at 7pm, and started the debate at 8pm. Rock on. Me and my teammates James and Bree, with Alisha onboard on the odd occasion, would spend the first half hour farting about, cracking jokes and thinking up a good "theme" for the debate. As first and second speakers respectively, Jimmy and I would then divvy up the pertinent points, while Bree had a panic attack about what she would do as third speaker. The answer was of course, what she always did: madly summarise our team's points while simultaneously coming up with errors to throw back in our opponents' faces. All three of us would get up and proceed to slag off the opposite team, in the nicest way possible, of course. James was best at this - he was a natural charmer and would have all the parents in the audience going "Ooh, isn't he just a devil?"
I just wish I could tune in to Channel Nine next Sunday and see not the " worm", but Kevin Rudd in a striped blazer and tie pin. Doesn't he just LOOK like the kind of guy who'd pull out colour-coded palm cards? And as for Johnny, he'd be the one (cause there's always one) quietly scoffing at every point an opposing speaker tries to make, then getting busted by the adjudicator for making his attacks "too personal".
At least it would be fun to watch. I doubt a couple of hours of relentless carping on in the Parliament House Great Hall is going to turn too many of the plebs away from Andrew G's latest shocking haircut on Australian Idol. Hey there's a thought. Maybe instead of the "worm", we could have an SMS vote, a la Idol or Dancing with the Stars. The 55c text costs could be donated to charity, and either Johnny or Kevie would end up voted out, publicly shamed, with nought but a teary Marcia Hines to turn to for understanding.
See, I've got incisive political commentary sewn up. I still can't believe I wasn't asked to be on the panel of respected journalists who'll pepper the pollies with prickly propositions. Laurie Oaks could've asked about interest rates, David Speers about industrial relations, then I could've taken over with a "Brangelina - will it last?" corker. Then we'll see who's got their fingers on the pulse of this wide, brown land.
Oh, and if anyone could fill me in on what a "head job" actually is, I'd be ever so grateful.
*These references could mystify anyone who didn't regularly catch the then-WWF wrestling circa 1998-2002, before all the drug-related murder-suicides and stuff.
Oct 17, 2007
Writing Challenge '07: Have Your Say
Well, the inaugural Girl Clumsy Writing Challenge has wrapped up. It was an odd conclusion, to be sure - with such a crazy birthday I had no real time or energy to reflect on the 30 previous days of posts. The weekend came and went in such a blur, resulting in exhaustion on my Monday and Tuesday "weekend" (ie, days off), so I've only just digested the fact that I don't have to spend an hour or two in front of the monitor each night anymore.
I do plan to write a bit of a think piece about the whole process, including my most- and least-favourite pieces. But first, I'd like to know what you thought.
You can tell me what you liked, what you didn't like; what aspects of my style were enjoyable to read; what linguistic, grammatical or thematic choices I need to work on.
All I ask is that you be honest. Although feel free to sugar-coat things just a wee bit, as I am overly sensitive. ;)
I do plan to write a bit of a think piece about the whole process, including my most- and least-favourite pieces. But first, I'd like to know what you thought.
You can tell me what you liked, what you didn't like; what aspects of my style were enjoyable to read; what linguistic, grammatical or thematic choices I need to work on.
All I ask is that you be honest. Although feel free to sugar-coat things just a wee bit, as I am overly sensitive. ;)
In Her Shoes
You can say what you like about Anna Bligh, but damnit, the woman always wears good shoes.
And as someone who spends most days schlepping around in a pair of Orthoheel thongs, I respect that.
You'll be pleased to know, though, that today I scored a minor personal victory. Today I attended a Bligh media conference - and for the first time, my shoes were better than hers. Score one for my pewter peep-toe pumps, which were just plain nicer than the Premier's round-toe black shoes with the high, thick heels.
However, my joy in this minor triumph over someone who is so literally well-heeled was short-lived. Capering about Parliament House and the carpark in my power pumps didn't do anything for my poor feet, sadly out of heel-wearing fitness. I'm now suffering intense soreness on that padded bit just below the big toe, with some bruising to the "little piggies that had none". Ouch.
To top off my podiatric troubles, I had the pleasure of stuffing up big time in my choice of film to review on-air today. I chose Death at a Funeral, a British farce-cum-screwball comedy. Nothing the matter with that, surely, I hear you ask.
Maybe not. But the day of the military funeral of Trooper David Pearce - the first Australian soldier to be killed in combat in Afghanistan - was probably NOT the ideal day to do it.
Youch. I'm still feeling that one.
Ah, well. Perhaps now you all understand even more why my adventures are labelled "bruising".
And as someone who spends most days schlepping around in a pair of Orthoheel thongs, I respect that.
You'll be pleased to know, though, that today I scored a minor personal victory. Today I attended a Bligh media conference - and for the first time, my shoes were better than hers. Score one for my pewter peep-toe pumps, which were just plain nicer than the Premier's round-toe black shoes with the high, thick heels.
However, my joy in this minor triumph over someone who is so literally well-heeled was short-lived. Capering about Parliament House and the carpark in my power pumps didn't do anything for my poor feet, sadly out of heel-wearing fitness. I'm now suffering intense soreness on that padded bit just below the big toe, with some bruising to the "little piggies that had none". Ouch.
To top off my podiatric troubles, I had the pleasure of stuffing up big time in my choice of film to review on-air today. I chose Death at a Funeral, a British farce-cum-screwball comedy. Nothing the matter with that, surely, I hear you ask.
Maybe not. But the day of the military funeral of Trooper David Pearce - the first Australian soldier to be killed in combat in Afghanistan - was probably NOT the ideal day to do it.
Youch. I'm still feeling that one.
Ah, well. Perhaps now you all understand even more why my adventures are labelled "bruising".
Oct 15, 2007
Triple M most certainly does NOT rock.
In their infinite wisdom, the geniuses at Austereo have decided to put on their best Eddie MacGuire act and "bone" Get This, a truly funny two-hour comedy program that has been rating very well for Triple M since its inception in early 2006. It features Ed Kavalee, Richard Marsland, various guest co-hosts, and of course, is anchored by my favourite-ever Australian (well actually New Zealander) comedian, Tony Martin.
I grew up addicted to Martin/Molloy, Martin's previous popular radio program that ran from 1995-98. Mick Molloy had his upsides, but the main reason I listened was for Martin's razor-like wit, his incisive-yet-non-threatening commentary on affairs of the day, and his excellent impersonations and comedy sketches. It was a joy when he returned to radio with Get This, sans-Molloy (no real big loss) but with Kavalee and Marsland in tow. They are a powerfully funny trio, revelling in their un-Triple M-ness, mocking the conventions of radio I've become so familiar with, and turning out consistently funny and biting satire.
The only reason I can discover so far for the axing - courtesy of the show's Wikipedia page - is that Triple M wanted to focus on its breakfast shows for 2008. I don't even really have words for this. I'm just so choked with rage, even more so than when I saw Evan Almightly recently.
I love radio. I love the medium, I love the interaction, I love the "theatre of the mind" aspect - hell, I even love the crazy callers (OK, not all the time). I especially love radio comedy and the positive influence its had on me over the years. It's helped me be funny (well, at least it's made be want to be funnier). It's just a pity the people in charge of radio often don't seem to know what they hell they've got when they've got something good. I was outraged by Triple M's decision, but sadly not surprised. Commercial radio in general is like that - an incestuous whirlpool of doom, a swirling Charybdis of ratings, fads, who's hot and who's not. To mix metaphors, the wind has now changed, and Get This is on the nose with executives, despite its popularity with listeners.
The federal election campaign is underway; it's begun, it's all happening. But I think my grass roots efforts over the next six weeks until the last episode of Get This (an ironic coincedence, as the boys themselves noted on-air) may very well be to bombard Austereo will as many emails as possible, expressing disappointment at their decision and support for the show. I urge anyone else suffering from political disenchantment to also re-focus and refine their passion!
I grew up addicted to Martin/Molloy, Martin's previous popular radio program that ran from 1995-98. Mick Molloy had his upsides, but the main reason I listened was for Martin's razor-like wit, his incisive-yet-non-threatening commentary on affairs of the day, and his excellent impersonations and comedy sketches. It was a joy when he returned to radio with Get This, sans-Molloy (no real big loss) but with Kavalee and Marsland in tow. They are a powerfully funny trio, revelling in their un-Triple M-ness, mocking the conventions of radio I've become so familiar with, and turning out consistently funny and biting satire.
The only reason I can discover so far for the axing - courtesy of the show's Wikipedia page - is that Triple M wanted to focus on its breakfast shows for 2008. I don't even really have words for this. I'm just so choked with rage, even more so than when I saw Evan Almightly recently.
I love radio. I love the medium, I love the interaction, I love the "theatre of the mind" aspect - hell, I even love the crazy callers (OK, not all the time). I especially love radio comedy and the positive influence its had on me over the years. It's helped me be funny (well, at least it's made be want to be funnier). It's just a pity the people in charge of radio often don't seem to know what they hell they've got when they've got something good. I was outraged by Triple M's decision, but sadly not surprised. Commercial radio in general is like that - an incestuous whirlpool of doom, a swirling Charybdis of ratings, fads, who's hot and who's not. To mix metaphors, the wind has now changed, and Get This is on the nose with executives, despite its popularity with listeners.
The federal election campaign is underway; it's begun, it's all happening. But I think my grass roots efforts over the next six weeks until the last episode of Get This (an ironic coincedence, as the boys themselves noted on-air) may very well be to bombard Austereo will as many emails as possible, expressing disappointment at their decision and support for the show. I urge anyone else suffering from political disenchantment to also re-focus and refine their passion!
Oct 14, 2007
Remember, remember the 24th of November...
... here we go round the Election bush, election bush, election bush...
Oct 13, 2007
A Birth Day in the Life
0200. OK, so it's the wee early hours of my birthday. Happy Birthday to me, etc etc. We've had friends round playing the Wii, and now I'm exhausted. Keep an eye on this blog during the day. I plan to update it every chance I get. It's going to be busy, what with voting in the by-election, covering the return of Trooper David Pearce's body at Amberley RAAF base, covering the by-election results at work, then figuring out what to wear to this damn high school reunion.
It's going to be a long 24 hours - well, 22 now. I'm off to bed.
1210. Half my birthday's gone already! But stop, reverse that glass, there's still half left! Hooray!
I got a mad Happy Birthday message left on my mobile by my father around 7am. I then awoke to the sounds of text alerts from Jazzman in the newsroom about the by-election. I was very happy to learn that Anna Bligh and Grace Grace would both be lobbying voters at the primary school/polling station just up the road from Chez Clumsy. Score one for killing two birds with one stone - voting AND attending media conference. Thanks to the Wah's keen eye for grubby campaign material, I actually had a good question for Our Premier (in light green wedge heels today; she always wears good shoes), but was beaten to it by Matt of the ABC. He's a top bloke, but dagnammit, he stole my question! I then proceeded to drop my pen, prompting Grace Grace to pick it up. Oh yes, ace reporter Girl Clumsy strikes again.
I'm back home now, and have been filing stories via remote laptop & wireless connection to Jazz back in the newsroom. The Wah and Mark have very kindly cleaned up the apartment after last night's drinking and Wii-ing (perks of being the birthday girl - no cleaning!). The Wah very kindly gave me a copy of "The God Delusion" by Richard Dawkins and "Family Guy" Season Five for my birthday; my Mummy and Daddy sent me a contribution for the emergency dishwasher purchase; my brother gifted me "Hyperdrive" on DVD; my friends Carly and Alisha gave me Kylie Minogue's "Darling" perfume; and Luke and Bec chipped in with chips - for Texas Hold 'Em poker, that is! I tell you, I am cleaning up today.
I'm now working on some prep material for my job this afternoon - covering the repatriation of Trooper David Pearce, who was killed in Afghanistan on Monday. I'm going to check the current temperatures out at Amberley, and adjust my clothing accordingly. Methinks it's going to be warm...
1925. All right, I'm officially exhausted, yet freaking excited because John Birmingham is in the 4BC studio!!! How awesome is that?!?! I'm going to go out shortly and turn into a drooling fan girl. Apparently the producer is "blog buddies" with him. Now why am I not "blog buddies" with John Birmingham? You see, this is where my attempts at internet notoriety are falling down. I need more celebrities on board. I think it's time to call Spencer Howson again...
Anyways, I'm tired because I've been out at the RAAF base at Amberley for the repatriation of Trooper David Pearce. It wore me out, so I can't even imagine what his poor family is going through. I spent the hour from 5:30 to 6:30pm standing in the base carpark balancing the laptop on my bonnet, trying to put together a coherent voice report. But damn, sometimes I make this shit look easy. Sydney didn't even cut the minute-long report down, and that's got to be some kind of praise.
So after another healthy dinner (one piece of original and chips), I'm back sitting on my arse trying to write more soldier stories. And thinking about trying to find some by-election results. And oh yeah, still have that reunion to go to...
2030. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Sky is reporting John Howard's left Kirribilli House to go to the airport. Most likely to go to Canberra. Most likely to go to see the Governor-General about an election. YOU BASTARD HOWARD. THIS MEANS I'M STILL GOING TO BE HERE TOMORROW MORNING.
0900. Just broke the news of the federal election to Anna Bligh. Yeah, that's right. I mix it with the heavies, does me.
0920. OK, another super-duper cross with Walter on-air done. I am rocking tonight. Woof! Now I really HAVE to go... must try to at least see one person at the high school reunion, and I have to wash my hair!
0140. All right, so it's not technically my birthday anymore, but as far as I know the rule is it's your birthday until you fall asleep. So rock on birthday!
After doing another cross with Walt on air just after the 9 o'clock news, I packed up and raced home. I've never washed my hair or shaved my legs so quickly (the shaving was a bit too quick in fact; I have a lovely new scar to add to my ever-increasing collection of leg injuries). The Wah came home from the cemetery just in time to drop me up at the Normanby Hotel, and I found about twenty-odd people from ye olde St Paul's School there.
All that fussin' and a bitchin' I did - and what happened? Cliche-ridden fun times all round. It was very friendly (mostly 'cause people were trashed by the time I got there), a lot of people knew I was in radio (mostly 'cause their parents listened, not them), and everyone was in a good mood. The only downside was everyone was starting to take off when I got there, and I ended up exchanging only brief pleasantries with most people. I managed to jot down a few numbers here and there, so here's hoping I might be able to catch up with some of them eventually. Hopefully before the 20-year reunion. Good grief.
So I think that's about me done for the day. I'm buggered. It's been the craziest birthday I think I've ever had - from the fun of the election hustings; the minor freakout on the way to Amberley; the sadness of Trooper Pearce's repatriation; to the bizarre coolness of meeting John Birmingham and being encouraged to join the blog interface he uses; the hyperactivity sparked by the Prime Minister heading for Canberra to call the election; and the happy exhaustion of the reunion. It's been a roller coaster ride. Whoa, enough with the clichés.
It's time for bed. I think I have time enough to have an extra special hug with the lovely Wah, who always makes birthdays better.
Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, I look like a monkey... Happy Birthday to me!
It's going to be a long 24 hours - well, 22 now. I'm off to bed.
1210. Half my birthday's gone already! But stop, reverse that glass, there's still half left! Hooray!
I got a mad Happy Birthday message left on my mobile by my father around 7am. I then awoke to the sounds of text alerts from Jazzman in the newsroom about the by-election. I was very happy to learn that Anna Bligh and Grace Grace would both be lobbying voters at the primary school/polling station just up the road from Chez Clumsy. Score one for killing two birds with one stone - voting AND attending media conference. Thanks to the Wah's keen eye for grubby campaign material, I actually had a good question for Our Premier (in light green wedge heels today; she always wears good shoes), but was beaten to it by Matt of the ABC. He's a top bloke, but dagnammit, he stole my question! I then proceeded to drop my pen, prompting Grace Grace to pick it up. Oh yes, ace reporter Girl Clumsy strikes again.
I'm back home now, and have been filing stories via remote laptop & wireless connection to Jazz back in the newsroom. The Wah and Mark have very kindly cleaned up the apartment after last night's drinking and Wii-ing (perks of being the birthday girl - no cleaning!). The Wah very kindly gave me a copy of "The God Delusion" by Richard Dawkins and "Family Guy" Season Five for my birthday; my Mummy and Daddy sent me a contribution for the emergency dishwasher purchase; my brother gifted me "Hyperdrive" on DVD; my friends Carly and Alisha gave me Kylie Minogue's "Darling" perfume; and Luke and Bec chipped in with chips - for Texas Hold 'Em poker, that is! I tell you, I am cleaning up today.
I'm now working on some prep material for my job this afternoon - covering the repatriation of Trooper David Pearce, who was killed in Afghanistan on Monday. I'm going to check the current temperatures out at Amberley, and adjust my clothing accordingly. Methinks it's going to be warm...
1925. All right, I'm officially exhausted, yet freaking excited because John Birmingham is in the 4BC studio!!! How awesome is that?!?! I'm going to go out shortly and turn into a drooling fan girl. Apparently the producer is "blog buddies" with him. Now why am I not "blog buddies" with John Birmingham? You see, this is where my attempts at internet notoriety are falling down. I need more celebrities on board. I think it's time to call Spencer Howson again...
Anyways, I'm tired because I've been out at the RAAF base at Amberley for the repatriation of Trooper David Pearce. It wore me out, so I can't even imagine what his poor family is going through. I spent the hour from 5:30 to 6:30pm standing in the base carpark balancing the laptop on my bonnet, trying to put together a coherent voice report. But damn, sometimes I make this shit look easy. Sydney didn't even cut the minute-long report down, and that's got to be some kind of praise.
So after another healthy dinner (one piece of original and chips), I'm back sitting on my arse trying to write more soldier stories. And thinking about trying to find some by-election results. And oh yeah, still have that reunion to go to...
2030. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Sky is reporting John Howard's left Kirribilli House to go to the airport. Most likely to go to Canberra. Most likely to go to see the Governor-General about an election. YOU BASTARD HOWARD. THIS MEANS I'M STILL GOING TO BE HERE TOMORROW MORNING.
0900. Just broke the news of the federal election to Anna Bligh. Yeah, that's right. I mix it with the heavies, does me.
0920. OK, another super-duper cross with Walter on-air done. I am rocking tonight. Woof! Now I really HAVE to go... must try to at least see one person at the high school reunion, and I have to wash my hair!
0140. All right, so it's not technically my birthday anymore, but as far as I know the rule is it's your birthday until you fall asleep. So rock on birthday!
After doing another cross with Walt on air just after the 9 o'clock news, I packed up and raced home. I've never washed my hair or shaved my legs so quickly (the shaving was a bit too quick in fact; I have a lovely new scar to add to my ever-increasing collection of leg injuries). The Wah came home from the cemetery just in time to drop me up at the Normanby Hotel, and I found about twenty-odd people from ye olde St Paul's School there.
All that fussin' and a bitchin' I did - and what happened? Cliche-ridden fun times all round. It was very friendly (mostly 'cause people were trashed by the time I got there), a lot of people knew I was in radio (mostly 'cause their parents listened, not them), and everyone was in a good mood. The only downside was everyone was starting to take off when I got there, and I ended up exchanging only brief pleasantries with most people. I managed to jot down a few numbers here and there, so here's hoping I might be able to catch up with some of them eventually. Hopefully before the 20-year reunion. Good grief.
So I think that's about me done for the day. I'm buggered. It's been the craziest birthday I think I've ever had - from the fun of the election hustings; the minor freakout on the way to Amberley; the sadness of Trooper Pearce's repatriation; to the bizarre coolness of meeting John Birmingham and being encouraged to join the blog interface he uses; the hyperactivity sparked by the Prime Minister heading for Canberra to call the election; and the happy exhaustion of the reunion. It's been a roller coaster ride. Whoa, enough with the clichés.
It's time for bed. I think I have time enough to have an extra special hug with the lovely Wah, who always makes birthdays better.
Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, I look like a monkey... Happy Birthday to me!
Oct 12, 2007
Slacker
Did ya miss me?
Nah, didn't think so.
The power went out at Chez Clumsy last night, just as I had switched on my computer and readied myself for another bout of writing.I love the sound of the power going out. "Brrrm". Or maybe "clurnk", depending on how many appliances you had on at the time of outage. It's a very quick, quiet noise, and hard to represent in words, even onomatopaeic ones. I especially loved it last night, as it meant I had a good excuse not to write an entry for Thursday 11 October. A disappointing lack of commitment, as I'm sure you'll agree, and one that came as somewhat of a surprise to me, as I've been pretty proud of the way I've disciplined myself to post everyday. Ah, well. It had been a shit of a day, and I was happy enough to curl up in bed with the latest Stephanie Plum novel instead.
The power eventually came back on at midnight; apparently a possum, sick of life and ready to end it all, had thrown itself into a transformer, short-circuiting the whole system. Poor possum - didn't it know it could have asked for help?
Anyways, suicidal marsupials aside, I thought I'd try to make up for my mistake with an extra post today, ahead of a return to normal transmission tonight. Initially I wrote a whole about a whole bunch of things that are causing me grief at the moment. But that's a bit of a downer, isn't it? I love to focus on the negative things a bit too much sometimes. So I've deleted them all.
Then I thought I'd write a list of good things/achievements over the past year. But it turns out I can do that with a few key words: rocking home life and apartment; gnarly new work challenges; wicked writing wonders; always amusing improv. I'm sure there's others, but that's The Good Life in a nutshell.
I considered writing something scathing about something political - maybe the Prime Minister's latest moves for "reconciliation" with Aboriginal Australia, or the fact he's probably going to hijack my birthday tomorrow by finally calling a federal election. But it's been a busy afternoon at work despite the slow start, and I can't really be bothered.
So here I am. A day out from my birthday, a day out from the official conclusion of the Inaugural Girl Clumsy Writing Challenge, and the tank's empty. I've got nothing. I'm a slacker, a slob, and no doubt in certain circles, a lazy bludger and un-Australian as well.
Forgive me?
Oct 10, 2007
Stormy weather
The lightning came in as we were dining, the whole lot of us, on the bronze-coloured wooden deck of the restaurant. My memory fails to recall the name of the place; only that it had been suggested as a suitable place for a group dinner by our host, Tracy. A check of my diary confirms it was called "Escape", and my dish was chicken in a delicious cheese and cream sauce. (Diaries are handy at times like this as I was never terribly good at fine brushstrokes; great swathes of experience is my preferred method of conveying meaning).
It was the spring of '06, and Australia was still reeling from the death of Steve Irwin. We, however, we far away on Ios, in the Cyclades, in the Aegean Sea. The questions of life and death seemed no more important than whether we would have enough sunblock to get us to Santorini in a few days' time.
Dinner was full of colour and conversation as usual, with the various Aussies, Kiwis and Poms who inevitably dominate such touring groups talking bollocks at every opportunity, and regaling each other with stories of the trip so far, or previous trips further away. Wine was followed by ouzo shots all round, the bitter aniseed taste resulting in lip-smacking and many a scrunched nose. All the while the sheet lightning in the distance created a dramatic background to the main town of Ios, perched as it is on the side of the hill, with the port on one side and our accommodation down the other. Summer had gone, but there were traces of it still in the air, crackling with humidity and electricity and alcohol.
By that stage, the Wah and I had become incredibly close with a young Liverpuddlian named Mike, who was christened "Mixmaster" by the Wah and has remained ever since. During our partying exploits the previous night, Mixmaster had wandered off and discovered a bar selling two cocktails and a schnapps chaser for five euros. He was determined to drag the pair of us back to that place, to once again slap down a tenner and lose himself in several "Sex on a Beach" (Sexes on a Beach? Sex on Beaches? How do you pluralise that particular concoction?) .
Mike's energy was infectious, and we were soon clambering up the steps that formed most of the hillside towns thoroughfares. With the homing instinct of a pigeon on steroids, Mix had us in the Shamrock bar with drink in hand within ten minutes of abandoning the rest of the group at the Australian-run "Fun Bar", where they'd gone to take advantage of friendly bar staff and chug-em drinking games. Within five minutes, rain began to pour down outside the bar doors. We raised our glasses and figured we'd wait it out.
The rain was followed by thunder. Then heavier rain. Reconnaissance missions into the square outside the hillside showed no sign of a break in the weather. The normally bone-dry island of Ios was experiencing its first real rainfall of the season. And we were stuck in it.
After a few more drinks, we decided to leg it to the Fun Bar, to rejoin our heroic band of all-weather adventurers. Trouble was, this involved dashing madly through a now-downpour for at least 300 metres, down a hill, round a corner, then up another slope. Mix set off at a cracking pace. Over 180cm tall and lanky, he was soon out of sight, 'til we could only followed the distant sound of "This way, lads!", before losing track of him altogether. The Wah and I splashed down vertical canals that had been steps twenty minutes earlier, our clothes increasingly sodden, though our mood remained light. It was not so cold, nor were we too old, to enjoy a stomp about in the wild rain on this wild night.
After scrambling around the fence of a church and running part way up the main street, we found Mix, taking shelter under the awning of a bicycle hire shop, and shaking with excitement and too many white spirits. "Orright, lads? Where have yer been?" he yelled at us, his voice barely audible over the driving rain on the bitumen. Our replies of "You took off! You ran too fast!" obviously weren't audible at all, as we had barely stopped for ten seconds when Mix yelled "I'm going to make it to the bar! Come on! It's just up the road!" - and he was off again, streaking up the road through the golden street lights, soon enveloped by the night and the rain.
The concrete pavement outside the bike shop was a good 30 centimetres off street level, but the water was rising fast. Within seconds it would begin to spill over, making it hard for us to jump off and get a good footing on the road. We geared ourselves up, and made the leap across the drain onto the road, and headed to the footpath opposite. The current on the river road was strong, it tore at our ankles and calves, and could have knocked us over had we stayed still for any length of time. We made it to the footpath, which was slightly raised and therefore less torrential, and began moving quickly but steadily
Then the electricity on the entire island went off.
The main street was plunged into darkness. We yelped, and immediately stopped. Walking in the pitch black is one thing, but walking in the pitch black in a tempest was quite another. We slowly began our pace up the slope of the main street, our eyes slowly readjusting. After what seemed like an hour, but was probably closer to five or six minutes, we came upon the Fun Bar.
Soaked to the bone, exhausted and starting to get cold, we clambered up the front steps of the full but dark bar. It had no electricity either, of course, but the managers had found some candles to plonk on the tables for light. We staggered inside and found our group. All were amazed to see us - it had been almost an hour since we finished dinner and they thought we had gone home. "No,", we cried. "We went with Mix to get cheap drinks and got caught by the storm!" The rest of the group had planned to move on from the Fun Bar, but when the storm hit they decided to hole up and ride it out. When the electricity went out, they knew they would be there for some time, as Ios taxi drivers apparently don't brave the rain. I couldn't blame them.
All were impressed with our marathon effort to get to the pub - one of the bar girls even offered me a staff t-shirt to wear and hung mine over the back of a chair. We eventually found Mix huddled in a corner, his beloved camera placed tenderly on the table in front of him. He had taken it with him, and it hadn't escaped the drenching despite being secured in his pants pocket. We sat round a table and began playing a drinking game, which involved naming as many things in a particular category as you could until someone failed, taking a drink. I played with Diet Coke, my usual tipple. The game was amusing enough to keep us occupied until about 2am, when we decided enough of the storm had passed for us to brave the walk home. Some were planning to kick on, but about eight of us wanted at least some sleep.
The electricity had yet to be switched back on, but this didn't worry the Wah and I, as we had walked down the winding road to our beachside accommodation the previous night, and were acquainted with the road. Neither of us was as inebriated as the other trippers, so we were confident we could wrangle the group home without incident. Mixmaster Mike, however, was paranoid, and became convinced that we were headed the wrong way. He strode out to the front of the group, some fifty metres ahead of the rest, repeating "We going the wrong way, we're going the wrong way".
The Wah asked that I keep up with Mix, while he would accompanying the rest of the group, who were all girls. So for the next three-quarters of an hour, while we strode home - fast, but not fast enough to stop me freezing in my still-wet clothes - I trotted a few paces behind Mix, saying calmly, "Just follow the lines in the road, Mix. They're taking us home. No, we are going the right way. We did it last night."
As the road flattened out, and Mix could see the beach and ocean to our right, he relaxed, knowing that finally he was almost home. We made it back to our hotel, which was divided into two sections, one with simple shared bungalows, the other comprised of self-contained rooms in a village-style layout. We noticed downed trees in the darkness, but there was still no power, and no light to get a true picture of what had happened.
We saw Mix off at the entrance to his side of the hotel, and diverted back to the village side where we were staying. The pathways underneath cracked with twigs and sticks, scattered everywhere by the high winds. Our room was unscathed, and despite not having any power hot water, was welcome enough. I peeled off my saturated clothing by crank torchlight, dried off, and crawled into bed.
Upon waking about seven hours later, the true scope of the storm became apparent. The side of Ios where we were staying had suffered through a mini-tornado. Whole trees had been uprooted and blasted onto the road and the beach opposite the hotel. One of the pools had a tree half in it. The bungalow side of the hotel had copped it worst - Mix's bag got completely soaked after a tree fell against the roof of his room causing a crack, followed by a leak.
There was still no power and no hot water, and it was with bleary eyes and tired skin that we greeted each other in the lobby for check out. Our bags stacked in a storage room, we crashed out by the beautiful pool that was still in full working condition, as repair crews got to work on fallen power lines and tree removal.
It was one of the stormiest nights I've ever experienced, in a place I'd never imagined I'd experience such a maelstrom. But it was also one of the best nights I've ever spent, and it's hard for me now to look at the lightning, the thunder and the rain pummelling South-East Queensland, and not cast my mind back, just for a second or two, to the sturm und drang of a little island in the Cyclades, in the Aegean Sea, when we saw real Greek fire.
It was the spring of '06, and Australia was still reeling from the death of Steve Irwin. We, however, we far away on Ios, in the Cyclades, in the Aegean Sea. The questions of life and death seemed no more important than whether we would have enough sunblock to get us to Santorini in a few days' time.
Dinner was full of colour and conversation as usual, with the various Aussies, Kiwis and Poms who inevitably dominate such touring groups talking bollocks at every opportunity, and regaling each other with stories of the trip so far, or previous trips further away. Wine was followed by ouzo shots all round, the bitter aniseed taste resulting in lip-smacking and many a scrunched nose. All the while the sheet lightning in the distance created a dramatic background to the main town of Ios, perched as it is on the side of the hill, with the port on one side and our accommodation down the other. Summer had gone, but there were traces of it still in the air, crackling with humidity and electricity and alcohol.
By that stage, the Wah and I had become incredibly close with a young Liverpuddlian named Mike, who was christened "Mixmaster" by the Wah and has remained ever since. During our partying exploits the previous night, Mixmaster had wandered off and discovered a bar selling two cocktails and a schnapps chaser for five euros. He was determined to drag the pair of us back to that place, to once again slap down a tenner and lose himself in several "Sex on a Beach" (Sexes on a Beach? Sex on Beaches? How do you pluralise that particular concoction?) .
Mike's energy was infectious, and we were soon clambering up the steps that formed most of the hillside towns thoroughfares. With the homing instinct of a pigeon on steroids, Mix had us in the Shamrock bar with drink in hand within ten minutes of abandoning the rest of the group at the Australian-run "Fun Bar", where they'd gone to take advantage of friendly bar staff and chug-em drinking games. Within five minutes, rain began to pour down outside the bar doors. We raised our glasses and figured we'd wait it out.
The rain was followed by thunder. Then heavier rain. Reconnaissance missions into the square outside the hillside showed no sign of a break in the weather. The normally bone-dry island of Ios was experiencing its first real rainfall of the season. And we were stuck in it.
After a few more drinks, we decided to leg it to the Fun Bar, to rejoin our heroic band of all-weather adventurers. Trouble was, this involved dashing madly through a now-downpour for at least 300 metres, down a hill, round a corner, then up another slope. Mix set off at a cracking pace. Over 180cm tall and lanky, he was soon out of sight, 'til we could only followed the distant sound of "This way, lads!", before losing track of him altogether. The Wah and I splashed down vertical canals that had been steps twenty minutes earlier, our clothes increasingly sodden, though our mood remained light. It was not so cold, nor were we too old, to enjoy a stomp about in the wild rain on this wild night.
After scrambling around the fence of a church and running part way up the main street, we found Mix, taking shelter under the awning of a bicycle hire shop, and shaking with excitement and too many white spirits. "Orright, lads? Where have yer been?" he yelled at us, his voice barely audible over the driving rain on the bitumen. Our replies of "You took off! You ran too fast!" obviously weren't audible at all, as we had barely stopped for ten seconds when Mix yelled "I'm going to make it to the bar! Come on! It's just up the road!" - and he was off again, streaking up the road through the golden street lights, soon enveloped by the night and the rain.
The concrete pavement outside the bike shop was a good 30 centimetres off street level, but the water was rising fast. Within seconds it would begin to spill over, making it hard for us to jump off and get a good footing on the road. We geared ourselves up, and made the leap across the drain onto the road, and headed to the footpath opposite. The current on the river road was strong, it tore at our ankles and calves, and could have knocked us over had we stayed still for any length of time. We made it to the footpath, which was slightly raised and therefore less torrential, and began moving quickly but steadily
Then the electricity on the entire island went off.
The main street was plunged into darkness. We yelped, and immediately stopped. Walking in the pitch black is one thing, but walking in the pitch black in a tempest was quite another. We slowly began our pace up the slope of the main street, our eyes slowly readjusting. After what seemed like an hour, but was probably closer to five or six minutes, we came upon the Fun Bar.
Soaked to the bone, exhausted and starting to get cold, we clambered up the front steps of the full but dark bar. It had no electricity either, of course, but the managers had found some candles to plonk on the tables for light. We staggered inside and found our group. All were amazed to see us - it had been almost an hour since we finished dinner and they thought we had gone home. "No,", we cried. "We went with Mix to get cheap drinks and got caught by the storm!" The rest of the group had planned to move on from the Fun Bar, but when the storm hit they decided to hole up and ride it out. When the electricity went out, they knew they would be there for some time, as Ios taxi drivers apparently don't brave the rain. I couldn't blame them.
All were impressed with our marathon effort to get to the pub - one of the bar girls even offered me a staff t-shirt to wear and hung mine over the back of a chair. We eventually found Mix huddled in a corner, his beloved camera placed tenderly on the table in front of him. He had taken it with him, and it hadn't escaped the drenching despite being secured in his pants pocket. We sat round a table and began playing a drinking game, which involved naming as many things in a particular category as you could until someone failed, taking a drink. I played with Diet Coke, my usual tipple. The game was amusing enough to keep us occupied until about 2am, when we decided enough of the storm had passed for us to brave the walk home. Some were planning to kick on, but about eight of us wanted at least some sleep.
The electricity had yet to be switched back on, but this didn't worry the Wah and I, as we had walked down the winding road to our beachside accommodation the previous night, and were acquainted with the road. Neither of us was as inebriated as the other trippers, so we were confident we could wrangle the group home without incident. Mixmaster Mike, however, was paranoid, and became convinced that we were headed the wrong way. He strode out to the front of the group, some fifty metres ahead of the rest, repeating "We going the wrong way, we're going the wrong way".
The Wah asked that I keep up with Mix, while he would accompanying the rest of the group, who were all girls. So for the next three-quarters of an hour, while we strode home - fast, but not fast enough to stop me freezing in my still-wet clothes - I trotted a few paces behind Mix, saying calmly, "Just follow the lines in the road, Mix. They're taking us home. No, we are going the right way. We did it last night."
As the road flattened out, and Mix could see the beach and ocean to our right, he relaxed, knowing that finally he was almost home. We made it back to our hotel, which was divided into two sections, one with simple shared bungalows, the other comprised of self-contained rooms in a village-style layout. We noticed downed trees in the darkness, but there was still no power, and no light to get a true picture of what had happened.
We saw Mix off at the entrance to his side of the hotel, and diverted back to the village side where we were staying. The pathways underneath cracked with twigs and sticks, scattered everywhere by the high winds. Our room was unscathed, and despite not having any power hot water, was welcome enough. I peeled off my saturated clothing by crank torchlight, dried off, and crawled into bed.
Upon waking about seven hours later, the true scope of the storm became apparent. The side of Ios where we were staying had suffered through a mini-tornado. Whole trees had been uprooted and blasted onto the road and the beach opposite the hotel. One of the pools had a tree half in it. The bungalow side of the hotel had copped it worst - Mix's bag got completely soaked after a tree fell against the roof of his room causing a crack, followed by a leak.
There was still no power and no hot water, and it was with bleary eyes and tired skin that we greeted each other in the lobby for check out. Our bags stacked in a storage room, we crashed out by the beautiful pool that was still in full working condition, as repair crews got to work on fallen power lines and tree removal.
It was one of the stormiest nights I've ever experienced, in a place I'd never imagined I'd experience such a maelstrom. But it was also one of the best nights I've ever spent, and it's hard for me now to look at the lightning, the thunder and the rain pummelling South-East Queensland, and not cast my mind back, just for a second or two, to the sturm und drang of a little island in the Cyclades, in the Aegean Sea, when we saw real Greek fire.
Oct 9, 2007
Inspirational spontaneity
Some years ago, back when I was co-running the Theatresports show at the Pig 'n' Whistle pub at Indooroopilly, I received an email from a woman named Deborah.
It turned out she was the co-founder of London-based improv troupe The Spontaneity Shop, with her husband Tom. They were going to be in Brisbane, and had emailed to ask if we would like to have them run a workshop while here. We jumped at the chance, and had them come along to a show as well. They were marvellous - wonderful improvisers and fantastic people - and we maintained email contact.
It's been over four years since that first contact, and in that time, Deb has been back to Oz on a couple of occasions to run improv workshops, and The Wah and I have been fortunate enough to stay with her and Tom in their fabulous apartment in Camden on three different occasions when we've been in London. We have done improv training with them, watched and even performed in one of their shows (yes, that's right, I have appeared onstage in London. Thank you.).
They have always been such generous hosts - we adore spending time with them. It's not just their depth of knowledge of improv, comedy, acting, theatre and performance in general, not just what they've achieved with The Spontaneity Shop, but the fact they completely believe we could do it too. They are such inspiration and enjoyable company - I feel like I'm better person just for knowing them, and being the beneficiary of just a small part of their knowledge.
Since doing some initial classes with Deborah and Tom, I've harboured the dream that one day I will go to London for a slightly more substantial period of time and do more extended training with them. I think it may be something I might have to do sooner rather than later - Deborah's career is taking her in even more exciting directions. Not only has she had successful stand-up comedy shows at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival for the last two years, she will be touring a show next year. On top of that, she and two friends have recently sold a SCREENPLAY to a film production company, and are now making frequent trips to Los Angeles to meet with film studios and executives and "pitch" ideas to them.
The Wah and I heard about all these latest eye-popping, jaw-dropping adventures during a catch-up with Deborah on the Gold Coast last night. I spent most of the few short hours over teppanyaki and thickshakes with my mouth open, begging for more details, and asking questions about how you write a screenplay, and learning about loglines, treatments and the looming Hollywood writers' strike. When we got home I was bursting with excitement and determined to write my own screenplay and make it big in L.A. I might be too podgy to be onscreen, but if I could fire up my imagination and learn a bit about the process, who knows what I could achieve off it!
So this is just my way of thanking Deborah for sending me that email all those years ago. I'm so thankful, every time I think about improv, that she reached out and made that connection. Deborah and Tom are just two of the best people I've ever met, and I'm forever grateful for their friendship, advice, hospitality and generosity. Slowly but surely, I'm going to prove to them that their faith in me was well-placed.
It turned out she was the co-founder of London-based improv troupe The Spontaneity Shop, with her husband Tom. They were going to be in Brisbane, and had emailed to ask if we would like to have them run a workshop while here. We jumped at the chance, and had them come along to a show as well. They were marvellous - wonderful improvisers and fantastic people - and we maintained email contact.
It's been over four years since that first contact, and in that time, Deb has been back to Oz on a couple of occasions to run improv workshops, and The Wah and I have been fortunate enough to stay with her and Tom in their fabulous apartment in Camden on three different occasions when we've been in London. We have done improv training with them, watched and even performed in one of their shows (yes, that's right, I have appeared onstage in London. Thank you.).
They have always been such generous hosts - we adore spending time with them. It's not just their depth of knowledge of improv, comedy, acting, theatre and performance in general, not just what they've achieved with The Spontaneity Shop, but the fact they completely believe we could do it too. They are such inspiration and enjoyable company - I feel like I'm better person just for knowing them, and being the beneficiary of just a small part of their knowledge.
Since doing some initial classes with Deborah and Tom, I've harboured the dream that one day I will go to London for a slightly more substantial period of time and do more extended training with them. I think it may be something I might have to do sooner rather than later - Deborah's career is taking her in even more exciting directions. Not only has she had successful stand-up comedy shows at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival for the last two years, she will be touring a show next year. On top of that, she and two friends have recently sold a SCREENPLAY to a film production company, and are now making frequent trips to Los Angeles to meet with film studios and executives and "pitch" ideas to them.
The Wah and I heard about all these latest eye-popping, jaw-dropping adventures during a catch-up with Deborah on the Gold Coast last night. I spent most of the few short hours over teppanyaki and thickshakes with my mouth open, begging for more details, and asking questions about how you write a screenplay, and learning about loglines, treatments and the looming Hollywood writers' strike. When we got home I was bursting with excitement and determined to write my own screenplay and make it big in L.A. I might be too podgy to be onscreen, but if I could fire up my imagination and learn a bit about the process, who knows what I could achieve off it!
So this is just my way of thanking Deborah for sending me that email all those years ago. I'm so thankful, every time I think about improv, that she reached out and made that connection. Deborah and Tom are just two of the best people I've ever met, and I'm forever grateful for their friendship, advice, hospitality and generosity. Slowly but surely, I'm going to prove to them that their faith in me was well-placed.
Oct 8, 2007
Cliched Girly Crisis!
Bumming around Chez Clumsy on my day off today, I decided to put some thought into the dreaded high school reunion, coming up this Saturday night.
Despite all my fears about said reunion, I had calmed down a lot about it in recent weeks - mainly because I've been so busy with the three Ws (work, writing and Wii) to expend valuable energy stressing over it. It's also not going to be as nerve-wracking for me, as thanks to the Brisbane Central by-election, which I've been rostered on to cover, I won't be arriving at said shindig until at least 10pm.
The reunion's getting underway at 6pm, which, if you ask me, is an absurdly early time. So by 10pm, whoever's left will be so trashed they probably won't even recognise me.
However, this bonus doesn't stop me fretting about the increasing differentiation between my high school body and my current train wreck of a figure. My efforts at a crash diet back in August failed miserably (I wasn't terribly surprised). My grand plans to go walking every day have been undermined by, again, those three Ws, plus my stellar inbuilt laziness chip. Therefore I shall be going to the union at quite possibly the heaviest I have been.
Now I don't know this because of scales (although I have been terrified when I've popped onto a set while shopping at Target). I know this because waaaaay back in February or March, I purchased a $10 black dress from a Valley Girl closing down sale. It fit quite well, at obviously was an awesome bargain. But today, I tried on that dress again - for the first time since the initial purchase - and it's tight around the waist and boobies. Noticeably tight. My torso resembles two fat pancakes flung againt a bean bag. Not a good look. I tried on another dress - one I've only worn once, to a friend's wedding. Slightly better, but still noticeably tighter around the top.
So now I'm in a high-school reunion clothing decision dilemma. I'll have to buy something new, but what? Another dress, that won't fit me in a month's time unless I contract tapeworm? A flashy top to go with jeans? Do I want to look dressy, or smart casual, or very casual? I have no idea. I so hope alcohol may clouded people's vision by the time I get there, but I can't count on that. All I know is I have to do something to make me look better than I really do - otherwise I'll have to rely on my meagre store of personal achievements to impress people!
Argh! I hate high school reunions!
Hopefully we'll bring to back to normal posting tomorrow, once this fit of cliched girliness has passed, and Girl Clumsy is back to eating her own body weight in chocolate and corn chips with gay abandon.
Despite all my fears about said reunion, I had calmed down a lot about it in recent weeks - mainly because I've been so busy with the three Ws (work, writing and Wii) to expend valuable energy stressing over it. It's also not going to be as nerve-wracking for me, as thanks to the Brisbane Central by-election, which I've been rostered on to cover, I won't be arriving at said shindig until at least 10pm.
The reunion's getting underway at 6pm, which, if you ask me, is an absurdly early time. So by 10pm, whoever's left will be so trashed they probably won't even recognise me.
However, this bonus doesn't stop me fretting about the increasing differentiation between my high school body and my current train wreck of a figure. My efforts at a crash diet back in August failed miserably (I wasn't terribly surprised). My grand plans to go walking every day have been undermined by, again, those three Ws, plus my stellar inbuilt laziness chip. Therefore I shall be going to the union at quite possibly the heaviest I have been.
Now I don't know this because of scales (although I have been terrified when I've popped onto a set while shopping at Target). I know this because waaaaay back in February or March, I purchased a $10 black dress from a Valley Girl closing down sale. It fit quite well, at obviously was an awesome bargain. But today, I tried on that dress again - for the first time since the initial purchase - and it's tight around the waist and boobies. Noticeably tight. My torso resembles two fat pancakes flung againt a bean bag. Not a good look. I tried on another dress - one I've only worn once, to a friend's wedding. Slightly better, but still noticeably tighter around the top.
So now I'm in a high-school reunion clothing decision dilemma. I'll have to buy something new, but what? Another dress, that won't fit me in a month's time unless I contract tapeworm? A flashy top to go with jeans? Do I want to look dressy, or smart casual, or very casual? I have no idea. I so hope alcohol may clouded people's vision by the time I get there, but I can't count on that. All I know is I have to do something to make me look better than I really do - otherwise I'll have to rely on my meagre store of personal achievements to impress people!
Argh! I hate high school reunions!
Hopefully we'll bring to back to normal posting tomorrow, once this fit of cliched girliness has passed, and Girl Clumsy is back to eating her own body weight in chocolate and corn chips with gay abandon.
Oct 7, 2007
Sell Out and the City
This article contains spoilers for the upcoming Sex and the City movie, as well as strong language.
You have been warned!
I was, and still am, a big fan of Sex and the City. Leaving all the "it's how real women talk about sex" B.S. aside, I thought that it was a cleverly written series that was sharp and funny, and didn't shy away from creative swearing, adult content or toilet humour.
But I must say I'm wary about the long-awaited movie now in production. Spoilers are starting to spill from the New York set, and I'm afraid it looks like it could be - well, complete pants.
The series ended back in 2004 on a predictably happy note: Carrie chose Mr Big over that creepy Russian artist; Charlotte and Harry found out they'd be adopting a baby girl from China; Miranda and Steve moved to Brooklyn; and Samantha came as close as Samantha possibly ever had to maybe-perhaps-kinda-sorta admitting she loved a man (without using those words of course; after all, leopard-prints never change their spots).
So the problem with a movie is - where could they go? At the end of the series, everyone was partnered up, 50 per cent of the main cast were mothers, and those days of crazy New York sexual shenanigans seemed over. All that would seem open to them is a few minor tests of existing relationships (toilet seat dilemmas; how to get the kiddies into that exclusive private school scenarios, etc), before the status quo is restored, and the men in the cinema yawn and try to pretend they hadn't fallen asleep as their female partners gab about the film on the drive home.
The various spoilers I've come across while trawling the internet haven't done much to disprove this. So far I've discovered both Charlotte and Miranda have second babies (Charlotte's natural apparently, according to photographic evidence), and - gasp in horror - Carrie and Mr Big tie the knot.
I mean, what the hell? Big wedding? Feather headress? Gigantic cake dress bigger than the freaking Titanic? Apparently it's a Vivian Westwood, and I suppose it fits with Carrie's "quirky" fashion sense, but I'm sorry, I have to pooh-pooh the frou-frou. Yuck.
I'm hoping against hope that's a joke, designed to throw us all of the scent - a dream/nightmare sequence that inspires Carrie to eschew the traditional giant wedding celebration in favour of something more low-key, intimate and truly reflective of her and Mr Big's relationship. But, you know, Americans frickin' love giant wedding celebrations, so screw subtlety.
And the thing is, I'm sure the clever writers behind the original series could have brainstormed some more original storylines for them. Perhaps Carrie could have been sent to London as a fashion correspondent, only to have Stella McCartney spit in her eye when she dares to applaud the comeback of fur.
Maybe Charlotte, in an attempt to connect with her converted Jewish roots, goes on a pilgrimage to Auschwitz-Birkenau but gets in trouble when she accidentally gives the Nazi salute while trying to brush a moth out of her hair.
How about lawyer Miranda taking on some celebrity clients? She could encourage fading pop stars to get their act together and regain custody of their children, or perhaps represent a rapper implicated in a gangsta drive-by shooting.
And what about Samantha? I think we'd all like to see the story of how this blonde beauty was bitten on the neck by a strange European man with pale skin and pointy teeth, transforming her into a man-hungry animal, desperate to feed on the sexual energy of her victims before discarding them like so many used condoms.
OK, maybe they've already done that plotline.
My point is, I hope they don't play it safe. After all, Sex and the City blazed the trail in so many ways - and I'm not talking about popularising name pendants or Manolo frickin' Blahniks.
The show introduced the mainstream to terms like "teabagging" and "pearl necklace"; it got female ejaculation in your face (well, in Samantha's face); it had a major character commit adultery, rather than simply be the victim of it; it even struck a blow in the battle to reclaim the word "cunt".
So Sex and the City - don't be like that guy who fell asleep while doing it with Charlotte, prompting her to get Tantric sex instruction from an old lady who demonstrated on her husband who proceeded to accidentally shoot ejaculate all over Miranda's hair.
Don't go soft.
You have been warned!
I was, and still am, a big fan of Sex and the City. Leaving all the "it's how real women talk about sex" B.S. aside, I thought that it was a cleverly written series that was sharp and funny, and didn't shy away from creative swearing, adult content or toilet humour.
But I must say I'm wary about the long-awaited movie now in production. Spoilers are starting to spill from the New York set, and I'm afraid it looks like it could be - well, complete pants.
The series ended back in 2004 on a predictably happy note: Carrie chose Mr Big over that creepy Russian artist; Charlotte and Harry found out they'd be adopting a baby girl from China; Miranda and Steve moved to Brooklyn; and Samantha came as close as Samantha possibly ever had to maybe-perhaps-kinda-sorta admitting she loved a man (without using those words of course; after all, leopard-prints never change their spots).
So the problem with a movie is - where could they go? At the end of the series, everyone was partnered up, 50 per cent of the main cast were mothers, and those days of crazy New York sexual shenanigans seemed over. All that would seem open to them is a few minor tests of existing relationships (toilet seat dilemmas; how to get the kiddies into that exclusive private school scenarios, etc), before the status quo is restored, and the men in the cinema yawn and try to pretend they hadn't fallen asleep as their female partners gab about the film on the drive home.
The various spoilers I've come across while trawling the internet haven't done much to disprove this. So far I've discovered both Charlotte and Miranda have second babies (Charlotte's natural apparently, according to photographic evidence), and - gasp in horror - Carrie and Mr Big tie the knot.
I mean, what the hell? Big wedding? Feather headress? Gigantic cake dress bigger than the freaking Titanic? Apparently it's a Vivian Westwood, and I suppose it fits with Carrie's "quirky" fashion sense, but I'm sorry, I have to pooh-pooh the frou-frou. Yuck.
I'm hoping against hope that's a joke, designed to throw us all of the scent - a dream/nightmare sequence that inspires Carrie to eschew the traditional giant wedding celebration in favour of something more low-key, intimate and truly reflective of her and Mr Big's relationship. But, you know, Americans frickin' love giant wedding celebrations, so screw subtlety.
And the thing is, I'm sure the clever writers behind the original series could have brainstormed some more original storylines for them. Perhaps Carrie could have been sent to London as a fashion correspondent, only to have Stella McCartney spit in her eye when she dares to applaud the comeback of fur.
Maybe Charlotte, in an attempt to connect with her converted Jewish roots, goes on a pilgrimage to Auschwitz-Birkenau but gets in trouble when she accidentally gives the Nazi salute while trying to brush a moth out of her hair.
How about lawyer Miranda taking on some celebrity clients? She could encourage fading pop stars to get their act together and regain custody of their children, or perhaps represent a rapper implicated in a gangsta drive-by shooting.
And what about Samantha? I think we'd all like to see the story of how this blonde beauty was bitten on the neck by a strange European man with pale skin and pointy teeth, transforming her into a man-hungry animal, desperate to feed on the sexual energy of her victims before discarding them like so many used condoms.
OK, maybe they've already done that plotline.
My point is, I hope they don't play it safe. After all, Sex and the City blazed the trail in so many ways - and I'm not talking about popularising name pendants or Manolo frickin' Blahniks.
The show introduced the mainstream to terms like "teabagging" and "pearl necklace"; it got female ejaculation in your face (well, in Samantha's face); it had a major character commit adultery, rather than simply be the victim of it; it even struck a blow in the battle to reclaim the word "cunt".
So Sex and the City - don't be like that guy who fell asleep while doing it with Charlotte, prompting her to get Tantric sex instruction from an old lady who demonstrated on her husband who proceeded to accidentally shoot ejaculate all over Miranda's hair.
Don't go soft.
Oct 6, 2007
Hug A Teenager
I'm working on a theory about children and young people. It seems to me (as completely biased child-free observer) that they go through several stages of likeability during their formative years.
It's always amazed me, working as I do at a radio station with a target demographic starting in the mid-40s age bracket, that people absolutely LOVE babies, but LOATHE teenagers. It's as if those nasty-faced, nose-pierced, emo-haired, badly-dressed, inarticulate, sex-obsessed violent animals we call "teenagers" sprung forth, fully-formed, from the gaping mouth of Hell, as opposed to developing out of the babies those same very listeners drool and gurgle about.
It's like puppies. Everyone likes them when they're small and cute. When they get big and angry, we take them back to the RSPCA, or worse, tie bricks to their legs and throw them in a dam. Poor teenagers. No wonder they hate the world; the world all of a sudden started hating them simply because they had the hide to grow up.
Now I have no doubt there are some shitty teenagers out there. But I think you'll find they are the ones who were fairly shitty kids, and will no doubt turn out to be seriously shitty adults. That's life - some people are just shits.
(Apologies for the swearing but it's just such a simple, evocative term)
I think - I hope - most teenagers get over themselves eventually, and look back on their teenage years with a mixture of amusement and embarrasment. I know I do. My theory is what teenagers want more than anything is to live in the adult world, but they know they can't, at least not yet. So they rage against it, and out of that rage emerges new cultures, new popular music, fashion styles, ways of thinking and communicating. The best are retained, the stupid discarded as a historical faux pas.
All we can really offer in the meantime is a simple act of kindness.
So everyone - hug a teenager. Offer open arms and a sympathetic ear. Try not to judge, at least not too loudly. And just try not to be too disappointed when they knee you in the nuts.
(Again, apologies if I'm making some fairly obvious psychological generalisations here, but I didn't take Psych 101, so it really is all from my own brain. Is smart, I am.)
- Babies: Universally liked and cuddled, mainly because they can' t talk back. Only unpopular when screaming, vomiting or pooping.
- Toddlers: Cute, but not as fun. Demanding, easily hysterical and full of their own self-importance.
- Kids: Learning how to push buttons, becoming annoying smart alecs.
- Tweens/pre-teens: Fairly well adjusted to life. They have a good sense of self, they know how things work, they've got energy and positivity, and feel the future is wide open to them.
- Teenagers: Complete and utter shits from hell. It's like being a toddler all over again in terms of self-discovery - but with rampaging sex hormones, the internet, drivers' licences and alcohol thrown into the mix. Joy.
- Young adults: Starting to get the f*** over themselves and become proper humans again. Tolerable, except when discussing how "old" they are now.
It's always amazed me, working as I do at a radio station with a target demographic starting in the mid-40s age bracket, that people absolutely LOVE babies, but LOATHE teenagers. It's as if those nasty-faced, nose-pierced, emo-haired, badly-dressed, inarticulate, sex-obsessed violent animals we call "teenagers" sprung forth, fully-formed, from the gaping mouth of Hell, as opposed to developing out of the babies those same very listeners drool and gurgle about.
It's like puppies. Everyone likes them when they're small and cute. When they get big and angry, we take them back to the RSPCA, or worse, tie bricks to their legs and throw them in a dam. Poor teenagers. No wonder they hate the world; the world all of a sudden started hating them simply because they had the hide to grow up.
Now I have no doubt there are some shitty teenagers out there. But I think you'll find they are the ones who were fairly shitty kids, and will no doubt turn out to be seriously shitty adults. That's life - some people are just shits.
(Apologies for the swearing but it's just such a simple, evocative term)
I think - I hope - most teenagers get over themselves eventually, and look back on their teenage years with a mixture of amusement and embarrasment. I know I do. My theory is what teenagers want more than anything is to live in the adult world, but they know they can't, at least not yet. So they rage against it, and out of that rage emerges new cultures, new popular music, fashion styles, ways of thinking and communicating. The best are retained, the stupid discarded as a historical faux pas.
All we can really offer in the meantime is a simple act of kindness.
So everyone - hug a teenager. Offer open arms and a sympathetic ear. Try not to judge, at least not too loudly. And just try not to be too disappointed when they knee you in the nuts.
(Again, apologies if I'm making some fairly obvious psychological generalisations here, but I didn't take Psych 101, so it really is all from my own brain. Is smart, I am.)
Oct 5, 2007
K, Robot
The K-series robot didn't begin its life as a machine, but rather, as a normal man. Science fiction novels had popularised the idea of robots wanting to become human; but 20th century technology was nowhere near advanced enough to facilitate such radical change. It was, however, up to the task of transforming a human into a robot.
And so it was with the K-series, which began its life as an average human, raised in rural surroundings with a standard education - and no more robotic than a pencil.
But as it grew into adulthood, the man that K-series once was developed a slight problem with its main engine. "Heart" was the human word for it. A pumping valve to this "heart" became damaged beyond normal human repair. Perhaps it had always been faulty, perhaps it had been used and abused during its owner's lifetime. At any rate, there came a time when the heart was no longer operational, unable to be fixed under warranty (human body parts rather foolishly lacking such back-ups), and therefore had to be replaced.
Now it is said that once a drop of salt enters a body of fresh water, that the water is no longer fresh, but salty. Similarly, once the robotic element was implanted into the human, then the human instantly lost a facet of its own humanity. "Machineness" had taken root, forever changing the man. Like the drop of salt within the freshwater lake it was undetectable to most other humans, but slowly, would come to flavour the actions of the now half-robot man.
The K-series, as the machine then came to be called, decided the country needed fixing, much like his heart had all those years ago. He attempted to work for governments in advisory capacities, but his mechanical heart broke with the strain. He knew was to politics what the last gasp of a dying woman was to a tornado.
So the K-series mended his broken valve, and began making alternative arrangements for the future of the country. With the support of his family unit, he braved the polling booths and made a run for elected office. He put himself out there, machineness and all, begging to be given a chance.
The people watched and evaluated his steely resolution, his perfectly groomed appearance and his ability to summarise popular discontent in twenty seconds or less. They liked the fact he kept a steady gaze despite the constant barrage of camera flashes. They thought the K-series looked like a robot that would get things done.
But the very reliability of the K-series proved its downfall. The people began to question the merits of electing a robot to public office. Was it really in their best interests to be represented by a creature without a living, beating heart? Could it truly understand the needs, desires, emotions of the voters? Could it feel?
The K-series was defeated, and its mechanical heart shattered again. Fortunately, it could still be fixed under warranty. It was even able to upgrade to a newer valve, one which replicated the beating of the human heart. The K-series was determined to regain its lost humanity, in the most machine-like way it could.
And so it was with the K-series, which began its life as an average human, raised in rural surroundings with a standard education - and no more robotic than a pencil.
But as it grew into adulthood, the man that K-series once was developed a slight problem with its main engine. "Heart" was the human word for it. A pumping valve to this "heart" became damaged beyond normal human repair. Perhaps it had always been faulty, perhaps it had been used and abused during its owner's lifetime. At any rate, there came a time when the heart was no longer operational, unable to be fixed under warranty (human body parts rather foolishly lacking such back-ups), and therefore had to be replaced.
Now it is said that once a drop of salt enters a body of fresh water, that the water is no longer fresh, but salty. Similarly, once the robotic element was implanted into the human, then the human instantly lost a facet of its own humanity. "Machineness" had taken root, forever changing the man. Like the drop of salt within the freshwater lake it was undetectable to most other humans, but slowly, would come to flavour the actions of the now half-robot man.
The K-series, as the machine then came to be called, decided the country needed fixing, much like his heart had all those years ago. He attempted to work for governments in advisory capacities, but his mechanical heart broke with the strain. He knew was to politics what the last gasp of a dying woman was to a tornado.
So the K-series mended his broken valve, and began making alternative arrangements for the future of the country. With the support of his family unit, he braved the polling booths and made a run for elected office. He put himself out there, machineness and all, begging to be given a chance.
The people watched and evaluated his steely resolution, his perfectly groomed appearance and his ability to summarise popular discontent in twenty seconds or less. They liked the fact he kept a steady gaze despite the constant barrage of camera flashes. They thought the K-series looked like a robot that would get things done.
But the very reliability of the K-series proved its downfall. The people began to question the merits of electing a robot to public office. Was it really in their best interests to be represented by a creature without a living, beating heart? Could it truly understand the needs, desires, emotions of the voters? Could it feel?
The K-series was defeated, and its mechanical heart shattered again. Fortunately, it could still be fixed under warranty. It was even able to upgrade to a newer valve, one which replicated the beating of the human heart. The K-series was determined to regain its lost humanity, in the most machine-like way it could.
Oct 4, 2007
Staring at Sudan
The issue of Sudanese immigrants and their apparent unwillingness to integrate with true-blue, dinky-di "Australians" has hit the headlines this week. Federal Immigration Minister Kevin Andrews has attributed at least part of the reason behind a cut in African immigrant numbers for 2007/2008 to the problem of those already here not adjusting into the "Australian way of life" quickly enough.
Now I would like to be able to write a thoroughly researched, well-reasoned and objective article about the plight of Sudanese refugees, the challenges they face, the problems that exist in their communities, how the situation is a microcosm of multi-culturalism itself, and the ugliness of race politics. I'd like to bandy the phrase "this year's Tampa" about in a meaningful way to ensure voters don't fall for scare tactics yet again at the upcoming federal election (or at least understand why they're falling for the scare tactics).
But really, that's just not the Girl Clumsy way. Instead, I give you two simple reasons why we should welcome Sudanese refugees to Australia with open arms.
Reason A:
THEY ARE BEING EXTERMINATED IN DARFUR IN ONE OF THE WORST GENOCIDES IN HISTORY, SO, YOU KNOW, IT WOULD BE KIND OF NICE IF WE AREN'T GOING TO BE MORE PROACTIVE ABOUT HELPING SHUT DOWN THE JANJAWID MILITIAS THEN BY CHRIST WE SHOULD ALLOW THOSE WHO ESCAPED BRUTAL TORTURE, RAPE AND/OR DEATH A HOME, HOPEFULLY FREE FROM THE TAUNTS OF A BUNCH OF IGNORANT REDNECK BASTARDS WHO HAVE NO IDEA ABOUT ANYTHING.
Ahem.
Reason B.
THEY ARE BEAUTIFUL.
It's shallow I know, but I have a growing obsession with the Sudanese, and West Africans in general. They are honest-to-goodness the most awesome examples of physical perfection I have ever encountered. I don't know any of them personally, of course. It's a sad indictment of my homogenous whitebread lifestyle that most people I know are basically like me.
Perhaps then a perceived "exoticism" is why I find myself staring in admiration every time I pass a Sudanese person. After all, I'm a podgy, round-faced, saggy-thighed, pasty-skinned doughy white chick. I'm about as exotic as Kraft Squeezy-Bottle Mayonnaise.
It's probably a good thing I don't know any Sudanese people. I'd look like a complete gawping idiot, unable to close my mouth or avert my gaze from their powerful beauty. I saw a news report about schools being set up in refugee camps in Chad, so young children could escape the horror of displacement and enjoy learning for a day a week. I wanted to adopt those children. I couldn't stop staring at them. They had such beautiful, hopeful, joyful faces - I just wanted to give them a cuddle, a glass of milk and a bedtime story. And I'm not maternal at all.
Now what I don't understand is why some Australians don't like West Africans coming to the country. After all, we're completely superficial and value good looks only slightly below sporting prowess. They're all bloody stunners, the whole lot of them. You could fill every runway at Fashion Week with Sudanese immigrants. Why are people trying to filter out these genes of gorgeousness?
My plea is for all Australians to look past the skin colour, and see the true beauty beneath. Beautiful people are beautiful people, no matter where they were born. By doing our bit to welcome the Sudanese and other West Africans to our country, we're doing our bit to make Australia - at the very least - just that little bit better-looking. And seriously guys, come on. Look at our federal leaders. Look at Kevin Andrews.
We need all the help we can get.
Now I would like to be able to write a thoroughly researched, well-reasoned and objective article about the plight of Sudanese refugees, the challenges they face, the problems that exist in their communities, how the situation is a microcosm of multi-culturalism itself, and the ugliness of race politics. I'd like to bandy the phrase "this year's Tampa" about in a meaningful way to ensure voters don't fall for scare tactics yet again at the upcoming federal election (or at least understand why they're falling for the scare tactics).
But really, that's just not the Girl Clumsy way. Instead, I give you two simple reasons why we should welcome Sudanese refugees to Australia with open arms.
Reason A:
THEY ARE BEING EXTERMINATED IN DARFUR IN ONE OF THE WORST GENOCIDES IN HISTORY, SO, YOU KNOW, IT WOULD BE KIND OF NICE IF WE AREN'T GOING TO BE MORE PROACTIVE ABOUT HELPING SHUT DOWN THE JANJAWID MILITIAS THEN BY CHRIST WE SHOULD ALLOW THOSE WHO ESCAPED BRUTAL TORTURE, RAPE AND/OR DEATH A HOME, HOPEFULLY FREE FROM THE TAUNTS OF A BUNCH OF IGNORANT REDNECK BASTARDS WHO HAVE NO IDEA ABOUT ANYTHING.
Ahem.
Reason B.
THEY ARE BEAUTIFUL.
It's shallow I know, but I have a growing obsession with the Sudanese, and West Africans in general. They are honest-to-goodness the most awesome examples of physical perfection I have ever encountered. I don't know any of them personally, of course. It's a sad indictment of my homogenous whitebread lifestyle that most people I know are basically like me.
Perhaps then a perceived "exoticism" is why I find myself staring in admiration every time I pass a Sudanese person. After all, I'm a podgy, round-faced, saggy-thighed, pasty-skinned doughy white chick. I'm about as exotic as Kraft Squeezy-Bottle Mayonnaise.
It's probably a good thing I don't know any Sudanese people. I'd look like a complete gawping idiot, unable to close my mouth or avert my gaze from their powerful beauty. I saw a news report about schools being set up in refugee camps in Chad, so young children could escape the horror of displacement and enjoy learning for a day a week. I wanted to adopt those children. I couldn't stop staring at them. They had such beautiful, hopeful, joyful faces - I just wanted to give them a cuddle, a glass of milk and a bedtime story. And I'm not maternal at all.
Now what I don't understand is why some Australians don't like West Africans coming to the country. After all, we're completely superficial and value good looks only slightly below sporting prowess. They're all bloody stunners, the whole lot of them. You could fill every runway at Fashion Week with Sudanese immigrants. Why are people trying to filter out these genes of gorgeousness?
My plea is for all Australians to look past the skin colour, and see the true beauty beneath. Beautiful people are beautiful people, no matter where they were born. By doing our bit to welcome the Sudanese and other West Africans to our country, we're doing our bit to make Australia - at the very least - just that little bit better-looking. And seriously guys, come on. Look at our federal leaders. Look at Kevin Andrews.
We need all the help we can get.
Oct 3, 2007
The John Howard Fan Club
The man is a charmer; I will give him that.
He wielded the microphone like Oprah Winfrey; he walked among the seated masses like Jesus walked on the Dead Sea; and he joked and bonded with the adoring crowd as he addressed their concerns about tax, petrol prices and the Labor state governments.
It was a fascinating sight. Until the "Jehovah" woman. But more about her later.
As part of the Prime Minister's phoney election campaign - sorry, the carrying out of his responsibility to listen to voter concerns - Wollstonecraft's Favourite Son today visited the Beenleigh Community Centre for what had been badged a "community forum and morning tea".
Now it certainly was a community - a community of diehard members of the John Howard Fan Club. Sure, it's not that diverse a community, but I think you'll find it fits within the dictionary definition of the word "community". And there were a few people under 50 there - most of the journos, a few token school kiddies, and the classic mortgage belt mum with bub on lap, sitting by the door just in case J.Ho needed an emergency baby to kiss on the way out. But more seemed to have one foot in the grave rather than one out of the pram, if you get my tasteless and unkind analogy.
It makes sense. Who has the time to spend a good couple of hours on a weekday talking shop with the PM? Retirees, that's who. Who are mortgage-free baby boomers and grey nomads more likely to vote for? John Howard. And Forde, the electorate which encompasses Beenleigh, is regarded as a safe Liberal one. I'm not trying to slag off older people, or even the Liberal Party, but after the fifteenth person has prefaced their question to Mr Howard with "I just want to say you're the best Prime Minister Australia's ever had", I started getting a little cynical. Of course, the PM's people would avoid a weeknight or weekend soiree - they might get the great unwashed showing up to spoil the love-in.
But in this situation, the PM was in his element. A few people asked genuine questions, including one regarding our overseas aid, but nobody questioned him on Burma. People asked about petrol prices, but not about how those on a pension or low-income earners are coping with rising costs of living. There was a lot of questions about superannuation and tax cuts, and the PM joked with an 84-year-old man who said he'd been paying tax for 60 years, "Peter says thank you". Big laughs. There was a lot of support for the PM when he urged more direct consultation between local governments and Canberra, and criticised the states.
A woman with caked on make-up, a big pink flower in her hair and a gaudy pink outfit to match even got up to dramatically praise the Prime Minister for his "belief in Jehovah". She went on to theatrically breathe into the microphone that those who do acknowledge Jehovah go on to achieve bigger and better things. There was an outburst of applause - but even the PM had the grace to look a teeny bit awkward, as I exchanged wide-eyed looks of disbelief with the ABC journo beside me.
As far as the journalism went - there was only one moment of gold, which came when a couple of primary schoolers asked when the election would be. Cue riotous laughter and more protestions from J. Ho that he hasn't made up his mind yet, but "definitely by early December". The PM refused to do a doorstop after leaving the room to a standing ovation. We followed him on a walk to the local Liberal member's electoral office, but he disappeared inside. An executive decision was made by various media crews to sod off and leave him to his own devices.
I've been to a few John Howard media engagements now, and it's certainly interesting to watch him weave his magic. He has a remarkable memory for names and faces, and he gives time to everyone. He is a consummate magician, ergo, a consummate politican.
No matter what the polls say, K.Rudd has a battle on his hands (and in a way, so does Peter Costello). Because the PM adores being adored. And he's not going to give that up without a fight.
He wielded the microphone like Oprah Winfrey; he walked among the seated masses like Jesus walked on the Dead Sea; and he joked and bonded with the adoring crowd as he addressed their concerns about tax, petrol prices and the Labor state governments.
It was a fascinating sight. Until the "Jehovah" woman. But more about her later.
As part of the Prime Minister's phoney election campaign - sorry, the carrying out of his responsibility to listen to voter concerns - Wollstonecraft's Favourite Son today visited the Beenleigh Community Centre for what had been badged a "community forum and morning tea".
Now it certainly was a community - a community of diehard members of the John Howard Fan Club. Sure, it's not that diverse a community, but I think you'll find it fits within the dictionary definition of the word "community". And there were a few people under 50 there - most of the journos, a few token school kiddies, and the classic mortgage belt mum with bub on lap, sitting by the door just in case J.Ho needed an emergency baby to kiss on the way out. But more seemed to have one foot in the grave rather than one out of the pram, if you get my tasteless and unkind analogy.
It makes sense. Who has the time to spend a good couple of hours on a weekday talking shop with the PM? Retirees, that's who. Who are mortgage-free baby boomers and grey nomads more likely to vote for? John Howard. And Forde, the electorate which encompasses Beenleigh, is regarded as a safe Liberal one. I'm not trying to slag off older people, or even the Liberal Party, but after the fifteenth person has prefaced their question to Mr Howard with "I just want to say you're the best Prime Minister Australia's ever had", I started getting a little cynical. Of course, the PM's people would avoid a weeknight or weekend soiree - they might get the great unwashed showing up to spoil the love-in.
But in this situation, the PM was in his element. A few people asked genuine questions, including one regarding our overseas aid, but nobody questioned him on Burma. People asked about petrol prices, but not about how those on a pension or low-income earners are coping with rising costs of living. There was a lot of questions about superannuation and tax cuts, and the PM joked with an 84-year-old man who said he'd been paying tax for 60 years, "Peter says thank you". Big laughs. There was a lot of support for the PM when he urged more direct consultation between local governments and Canberra, and criticised the states.
A woman with caked on make-up, a big pink flower in her hair and a gaudy pink outfit to match even got up to dramatically praise the Prime Minister for his "belief in Jehovah". She went on to theatrically breathe into the microphone that those who do acknowledge Jehovah go on to achieve bigger and better things. There was an outburst of applause - but even the PM had the grace to look a teeny bit awkward, as I exchanged wide-eyed looks of disbelief with the ABC journo beside me.
As far as the journalism went - there was only one moment of gold, which came when a couple of primary schoolers asked when the election would be. Cue riotous laughter and more protestions from J. Ho that he hasn't made up his mind yet, but "definitely by early December". The PM refused to do a doorstop after leaving the room to a standing ovation. We followed him on a walk to the local Liberal member's electoral office, but he disappeared inside. An executive decision was made by various media crews to sod off and leave him to his own devices.
I've been to a few John Howard media engagements now, and it's certainly interesting to watch him weave his magic. He has a remarkable memory for names and faces, and he gives time to everyone. He is a consummate magician, ergo, a consummate politican.
No matter what the polls say, K.Rudd has a battle on his hands (and in a way, so does Peter Costello). Because the PM adores being adored. And he's not going to give that up without a fight.
Oct 2, 2007
Cervical Cancer: Girl Clumsy Says No
This morning I received my second jab of a medical wonder - Gardisil, the cervical cancer vaccine.
Thanks to Queensland's own Professor Ian Frazer and a very smart and no doubt good-looking bunch of UQ scientists, we now have a vaccine that provides 100 per cent protection against the strains of the human papilloma virus (HPV) that cause 70 per cent of all cervical cancers. This is an incredible achievement - a vaccine that prevents CANCER. How bloody marvellous is that?
I paid $150 for my first shot of Gardisil in August, because the law was you could have the vaccine provided for free only if you could have all three boosters BEFORE you turn 27. However, due to numerous complaints, they've now changed that - so as long as you can get your first shot in before your 27th birthday, you'll get the full course for the bargain price of ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. So bingo, my second two injections cost zilch, zip, nada, nothing - courtesy of the Australian Goverment.
Coincidentally, Gardisil has made the news again recently, with federal Health Minister Tony Abbott revealing one in five teenage girls have not received the vaccine because of parental concerns. The main reasons behind this reluctance seem to be a) they fear side effects b)they don't trust pharmaceutical companies and c) they fear the vaccine would encourage their daughters to become promiscious.
Now even Professor Ian Frazer himself has said it is a family's right to choose whether they want the vaccine for their daughters or not. Having researched the vaccine, I believe the scientific evidence is there to back up its effectiveness. I also look at the success vaccinations for influenza, measles, diptheria, hepatitis, smallpox, polio and a host of other diseases have been. We don't have smallpox at all anymore, and polio is on the verge of being eradicated. Our world is a healthier place thanks to scientific and medical advances. But, it is a family's right to choose - even if I vehemently object to their choice (how do you politely call someone "stupid"?). In terms of side effects I have suffered nothing worse than a sensitive arm around the entry point - just like any other needle.
As far as drug companies go - that's a trickier nut to crack. Yes, they're no doubt out to make money. They have shareholders, and a bottom line. But we live in a capitalist world, and until governments take over all medicinal research and manufacture, that's just something we have to live with. And think about it - it's in their financial interests to create drugs that work, with as few side effects as possible. Besides, we are very fortunate in Australia that the Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme covers a wide range of drugs, providing them to citizens for far less than the government pays for them. The United States is more of a basketcase when it comes to costs of medicines. But we're not there yet, and with public support for the PBS, we never will be.
As to the final argument - words cannot express the rage I feel upon hearing this. What utter GARBAGE. If I thought about the risks of sex at all as a teenager (when I finally got a clue as to what it was all about), they were pregnancy and sexually transmitted infections. Cervical cancer didn't even factor into the deal. I had no idea what it was all about until I began having pap smears in my late teens.
I can understand it might be awkward for parents to have to discuss the reasons why Gardisil is a good idea. After all, no parent really wants 13-year-old Susie to go out and get it on. But I think it's a great opportunity to further educate kids about sex. Kids need to know that with the right person at the right time, sex is a wonderful human experience. But it also involves issues of emotional and physical health. Teenagers can be clueless enough as it is - giving them more information is a GOOD thing, not a bad thing. And research has shown teens are going to have sex no matter what you say - wouldn't it be good to at least have the knowledge that their chances of contracting HPV are lower because they've been vaccinated against it?
I'm in a very low-risk category when it comes to cervical cancer. I failed to "put it about a bit" during my teens and early twenties (the high-risk age groups) and I'm in a monogamous relationship. Given my family history, a bowel cancer vaccine would be far more useful. And granted, if I get cervical cancer in years to come that's caused by the strains Gardisil doesn't protect against, then yes, I'll probably be pretty pissed off. But you know what? Any vaccine, that affords me effective protection against a cancer risk - no matter how small - is worth it.
I've mentioned to a few female friends of mine under 27 that the vaccine is out there and its available to them. I've been amazed to hear reactions including "I don't like needles" or "Doesn't it have side effects?". My plea then, is to all women under 27. Seriously consider Gardisil. Don't let an an opportunity like this pass you by. The government is set to scale back its free vaccination program to 12-13 year-olds only in mid-2009. After that you'll have to pay for if you want it. As I said earlier, I was prepared to pay - but why wait when you can get a freebie now?
Over 30s - you can still purchase a different form of the vaccine called Cervarix. Again, you have to pay for it. At $150 a shot, it's not cheap. But you can get some back if you have private health insurance, and given this time of economic prosperity, it's probably a good time to invest in your health - even if it's at the expense of a new frock or pair of shoes.
Health Minister Tony Abbott is a rampaging Catholic and nowhere close to being my favourite person. But he's earned my respect by pleading with parents to get their girls vaccinated. Even Mr Abbott - a fervent moralist and right-to-lifer - doesn't buy the "Gardisil encourages promiscuity"argument. For that he earns my respect.
http://www.health.gov.au/cervicalcancer
Thanks to Queensland's own Professor Ian Frazer and a very smart and no doubt good-looking bunch of UQ scientists, we now have a vaccine that provides 100 per cent protection against the strains of the human papilloma virus (HPV) that cause 70 per cent of all cervical cancers. This is an incredible achievement - a vaccine that prevents CANCER. How bloody marvellous is that?
I paid $150 for my first shot of Gardisil in August, because the law was you could have the vaccine provided for free only if you could have all three boosters BEFORE you turn 27. However, due to numerous complaints, they've now changed that - so as long as you can get your first shot in before your 27th birthday, you'll get the full course for the bargain price of ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. So bingo, my second two injections cost zilch, zip, nada, nothing - courtesy of the Australian Goverment.
Coincidentally, Gardisil has made the news again recently, with federal Health Minister Tony Abbott revealing one in five teenage girls have not received the vaccine because of parental concerns. The main reasons behind this reluctance seem to be a) they fear side effects b)they don't trust pharmaceutical companies and c) they fear the vaccine would encourage their daughters to become promiscious.
Now even Professor Ian Frazer himself has said it is a family's right to choose whether they want the vaccine for their daughters or not. Having researched the vaccine, I believe the scientific evidence is there to back up its effectiveness. I also look at the success vaccinations for influenza, measles, diptheria, hepatitis, smallpox, polio and a host of other diseases have been. We don't have smallpox at all anymore, and polio is on the verge of being eradicated. Our world is a healthier place thanks to scientific and medical advances. But, it is a family's right to choose - even if I vehemently object to their choice (how do you politely call someone "stupid"?). In terms of side effects I have suffered nothing worse than a sensitive arm around the entry point - just like any other needle.
As far as drug companies go - that's a trickier nut to crack. Yes, they're no doubt out to make money. They have shareholders, and a bottom line. But we live in a capitalist world, and until governments take over all medicinal research and manufacture, that's just something we have to live with. And think about it - it's in their financial interests to create drugs that work, with as few side effects as possible. Besides, we are very fortunate in Australia that the Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme covers a wide range of drugs, providing them to citizens for far less than the government pays for them. The United States is more of a basketcase when it comes to costs of medicines. But we're not there yet, and with public support for the PBS, we never will be.
As to the final argument - words cannot express the rage I feel upon hearing this. What utter GARBAGE. If I thought about the risks of sex at all as a teenager (when I finally got a clue as to what it was all about), they were pregnancy and sexually transmitted infections. Cervical cancer didn't even factor into the deal. I had no idea what it was all about until I began having pap smears in my late teens.
I can understand it might be awkward for parents to have to discuss the reasons why Gardisil is a good idea. After all, no parent really wants 13-year-old Susie to go out and get it on. But I think it's a great opportunity to further educate kids about sex. Kids need to know that with the right person at the right time, sex is a wonderful human experience. But it also involves issues of emotional and physical health. Teenagers can be clueless enough as it is - giving them more information is a GOOD thing, not a bad thing. And research has shown teens are going to have sex no matter what you say - wouldn't it be good to at least have the knowledge that their chances of contracting HPV are lower because they've been vaccinated against it?
I'm in a very low-risk category when it comes to cervical cancer. I failed to "put it about a bit" during my teens and early twenties (the high-risk age groups) and I'm in a monogamous relationship. Given my family history, a bowel cancer vaccine would be far more useful. And granted, if I get cervical cancer in years to come that's caused by the strains Gardisil doesn't protect against, then yes, I'll probably be pretty pissed off. But you know what? Any vaccine, that affords me effective protection against a cancer risk - no matter how small - is worth it.
I've mentioned to a few female friends of mine under 27 that the vaccine is out there and its available to them. I've been amazed to hear reactions including "I don't like needles" or "Doesn't it have side effects?". My plea then, is to all women under 27. Seriously consider Gardisil. Don't let an an opportunity like this pass you by. The government is set to scale back its free vaccination program to 12-13 year-olds only in mid-2009. After that you'll have to pay for if you want it. As I said earlier, I was prepared to pay - but why wait when you can get a freebie now?
Over 30s - you can still purchase a different form of the vaccine called Cervarix. Again, you have to pay for it. At $150 a shot, it's not cheap. But you can get some back if you have private health insurance, and given this time of economic prosperity, it's probably a good time to invest in your health - even if it's at the expense of a new frock or pair of shoes.
Health Minister Tony Abbott is a rampaging Catholic and nowhere close to being my favourite person. But he's earned my respect by pleading with parents to get their girls vaccinated. Even Mr Abbott - a fervent moralist and right-to-lifer - doesn't buy the "Gardisil encourages promiscuity"argument. For that he earns my respect.
http://www.health.gov.au/cervicalcancer
On the Subject of Drinking
*Due to internet connection problems, this post is a day late. It is technically the post for Monday 1 October*
I have never been drunk in my life.
I have tasted alcohol: some I have tolerated, most I have actively disliked.
I have never felt the need to drink to “loosen up” or “relax”; although I have on many occasions felt like a bit of an outsider or a square for not doing so. I have sometimes taken a drink in celebration – at a wedding, or party etc. There was also one time in Scotland I had to skull a beer and a schnapps to win a trivia game (and nobody beats me at trivia). But while I could claim a few occasions where I might be classified as “a bit tipsy”, I have never been 100 per cent shitfaced, rat-arsed, pissed, boss-eyed, muntered, blind, smashed, blotto, wasted, hammered or trollied.
As I approach another birthday - which will no doubt be spent alcohol-free, despite also being the night of my high-school reunion – I wonder why that could be?
Possibility A: Religious reasons
Fuck no. My memories of a Catholic youth included a heavy emphasis on throwing wine down my gullet. Come communion, I used to take the bread and move on. I never remember meeting any teetotal religious folk – Irish and Polish Catholics are well known for their love of a drop – nor do I ever recall Father Ron promising to fire and brimstone my ass during Sunday school if I partook of the demon drink. And besides, since when did I ever listen to religion about anything?
Possibility B: Poor parental role models
My parents love a drop. They often love a whole bottle. I grew up with them enjoying wine with meals, or the odd beer over a BBQ. My Dad would occasionally have a whiskey, my Mum’s spirit of choice was brandy and Coke. Hardly Eastenders around our neck of the woods. From about age 12, my parents would offer me a shandy or some other watered-down girly drink to try. They believed it was important to learn to drink alcohol responsibly, and to enjoy it with meals. I never felt alchol was forbidden to me; perhaps that meant I didn’t desire it much?
Possibility C: Control issues
I’m not afraid to admit I’m a bit afraid to get drunk. I’m not entirely sure I want to deal with the consequences – be they bad behaviour during, or physical illness afterwards. I certainly can be a bit uptight; and I’ve had problems with some people because they perceive non-drinking with a self-inflated sense of worth – that I’m better than them for not drinking. And that’s partly true, I guess – I am proud to say I can go to a party and have a good time without alcohol. I wish more people felt like that too – we wouldn’t have some of the problems we have. As a teenager, I can remember thinking of all the dangerous positions I could get into if I got drunk and lost responsibility for my own choices and actions. In senior year, getting and keeping a drivers’ licence was more important than getting slammed on weekends. But after all, I was a geek. Who needs alcohol when you can watch Blackadder, listen to taped episodes of Martin/Molloy, or dance about in your bedroom to the Spice Girls? I remained, for the most part, blissfully unaware of what some of my classmates were getting up to, and when I did encounter their drunk selves, I felt no desire to lose control of myself like that.
Possibility D: Taste and expense
I really, truly, don’t like the taste of many alcohols. The ones I have enjoyed are creamy liqueurs or cocktails that hide the taste of the alcohol. Perhaps I shall try more as my palette matures with age. Another major factor is the tremendous amount of money one can spend on booze. If I’m anything at all in this world, I am a filthy cheapskate. If I don’t like the taste and don’t really feel the need to experience its effect, why should I spend good money on drinks when I could spend that on chocolate and DVDs? I used to pride myself that if I timed a night out well, all I’d have to pay for, if anything, would be parking. I know it’s about the good times, the experiences, the joy, the being with friends that is “worth” the money. I try to remember to buy rounds sometimes to be included in that spirit. But I’ll probably never really “get it”.
So after all that, it appears the second two possibilities are the main reasons behind my continuing abstinence. I’d like to point out that it’s not an easy life. Drinking is so ingrained into virtually every culture in the world, it’s an oddity when you don’t partake, and generally you have to spend a few minutes explaining yourself when you’re first offered a drink. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard the phrase “What, not at all?” – well, I’d have somewhere between $200 and $400. That’s a lot of DVDs. And many people get paranoid that I’m sitting in judgement on them, that I’ll remember every “bad” thing they did during the evening and rub their nose in it next time I see them. Yes, I’ll probably remember the evening better than you. But I also have a lousy memory, and will forget within a few days.
And while I do get upset at some of the behaviour that is sometimes a consequence of heavy drinking (rudeness, violence), I really don’t mind other people drinking. If it’s your choice, it makes you happy, and you do it responsibly – go for it.
So go easy on an old teetotaler. After all, you never know when you’ll need me to drive you home.
I have never been drunk in my life.
I have tasted alcohol: some I have tolerated, most I have actively disliked.
I have never felt the need to drink to “loosen up” or “relax”; although I have on many occasions felt like a bit of an outsider or a square for not doing so. I have sometimes taken a drink in celebration – at a wedding, or party etc. There was also one time in Scotland I had to skull a beer and a schnapps to win a trivia game (and nobody beats me at trivia). But while I could claim a few occasions where I might be classified as “a bit tipsy”, I have never been 100 per cent shitfaced, rat-arsed, pissed, boss-eyed, muntered, blind, smashed, blotto, wasted, hammered or trollied.
As I approach another birthday - which will no doubt be spent alcohol-free, despite also being the night of my high-school reunion – I wonder why that could be?
Possibility A: Religious reasons
Fuck no. My memories of a Catholic youth included a heavy emphasis on throwing wine down my gullet. Come communion, I used to take the bread and move on. I never remember meeting any teetotal religious folk – Irish and Polish Catholics are well known for their love of a drop – nor do I ever recall Father Ron promising to fire and brimstone my ass during Sunday school if I partook of the demon drink. And besides, since when did I ever listen to religion about anything?
Possibility B: Poor parental role models
My parents love a drop. They often love a whole bottle. I grew up with them enjoying wine with meals, or the odd beer over a BBQ. My Dad would occasionally have a whiskey, my Mum’s spirit of choice was brandy and Coke. Hardly Eastenders around our neck of the woods. From about age 12, my parents would offer me a shandy or some other watered-down girly drink to try. They believed it was important to learn to drink alcohol responsibly, and to enjoy it with meals. I never felt alchol was forbidden to me; perhaps that meant I didn’t desire it much?
Possibility C: Control issues
I’m not afraid to admit I’m a bit afraid to get drunk. I’m not entirely sure I want to deal with the consequences – be they bad behaviour during, or physical illness afterwards. I certainly can be a bit uptight; and I’ve had problems with some people because they perceive non-drinking with a self-inflated sense of worth – that I’m better than them for not drinking. And that’s partly true, I guess – I am proud to say I can go to a party and have a good time without alcohol. I wish more people felt like that too – we wouldn’t have some of the problems we have. As a teenager, I can remember thinking of all the dangerous positions I could get into if I got drunk and lost responsibility for my own choices and actions. In senior year, getting and keeping a drivers’ licence was more important than getting slammed on weekends. But after all, I was a geek. Who needs alcohol when you can watch Blackadder, listen to taped episodes of Martin/Molloy, or dance about in your bedroom to the Spice Girls? I remained, for the most part, blissfully unaware of what some of my classmates were getting up to, and when I did encounter their drunk selves, I felt no desire to lose control of myself like that.
Possibility D: Taste and expense
I really, truly, don’t like the taste of many alcohols. The ones I have enjoyed are creamy liqueurs or cocktails that hide the taste of the alcohol. Perhaps I shall try more as my palette matures with age. Another major factor is the tremendous amount of money one can spend on booze. If I’m anything at all in this world, I am a filthy cheapskate. If I don’t like the taste and don’t really feel the need to experience its effect, why should I spend good money on drinks when I could spend that on chocolate and DVDs? I used to pride myself that if I timed a night out well, all I’d have to pay for, if anything, would be parking. I know it’s about the good times, the experiences, the joy, the being with friends that is “worth” the money. I try to remember to buy rounds sometimes to be included in that spirit. But I’ll probably never really “get it”.
So after all that, it appears the second two possibilities are the main reasons behind my continuing abstinence. I’d like to point out that it’s not an easy life. Drinking is so ingrained into virtually every culture in the world, it’s an oddity when you don’t partake, and generally you have to spend a few minutes explaining yourself when you’re first offered a drink. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard the phrase “What, not at all?” – well, I’d have somewhere between $200 and $400. That’s a lot of DVDs. And many people get paranoid that I’m sitting in judgement on them, that I’ll remember every “bad” thing they did during the evening and rub their nose in it next time I see them. Yes, I’ll probably remember the evening better than you. But I also have a lousy memory, and will forget within a few days.
And while I do get upset at some of the behaviour that is sometimes a consequence of heavy drinking (rudeness, violence), I really don’t mind other people drinking. If it’s your choice, it makes you happy, and you do it responsibly – go for it.
So go easy on an old teetotaler. After all, you never know when you’ll need me to drive you home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)