Tim and Wade discuss Soilent Green and cereal. Steve watches sagely on. Jackie pops in and out. And somewhere in the background is a comedy vampire...
Apr 30, 2008
Apr 29, 2008
Damn you, rhinovirus!
I have come down with the common cold.
Blurgh.
It's horrid to be flu-y at the best of times; but with the second and final week of "The Truth" beginning tonight, it's positively nasty.
I've had a couple of near misses with colds in the past couple of months, and I've discovered that getting stuck into some good quality orange juice has been the best medicine. Consequently I stopped off at the supermarket last night to pick up two litres of Berri "Orange + Iron", as I figured as a woman with a low red-meat intake, it couldn't hurt to boost the Fe levels a bit as well.
I drank about half of it last night, and will scoff the rest (and hopefully something with pseudo-ephedrine in it) this evening before the show. Until then I shall remain a dope-eyed, sluggish, sniffly excuse for a human being.
Unless of course, someone has a magical relief for the common cold. Failing that, you could amuse me by describing times when you were inappropriately or inadvisedly ill.
Blurgh.
It's horrid to be flu-y at the best of times; but with the second and final week of "The Truth" beginning tonight, it's positively nasty.
I've had a couple of near misses with colds in the past couple of months, and I've discovered that getting stuck into some good quality orange juice has been the best medicine. Consequently I stopped off at the supermarket last night to pick up two litres of Berri "Orange + Iron", as I figured as a woman with a low red-meat intake, it couldn't hurt to boost the Fe levels a bit as well.
I drank about half of it last night, and will scoff the rest (and hopefully something with pseudo-ephedrine in it) this evening before the show. Until then I shall remain a dope-eyed, sluggish, sniffly excuse for a human being.
Unless of course, someone has a magical relief for the common cold. Failing that, you could amuse me by describing times when you were inappropriately or inadvisedly ill.
Apr 24, 2008
Apr 17, 2008
Terry Pratchett's "The Truth"
Now surely that must pique your interest?
Come and learn "The Truth"!
Brisbane Arts Theatre, April 22 to May 3.
Tuesdays to Saturdays at 8pm.
Sunday 27 April 2pm.
Tickets $25/$20.
Book on 3369 2344
www.artstheatre.com.au
Play Parly For Me
I believe I still have a home; in fact I may have even spent several hours sleeping there this week. However my life this week really has been lived in two different places:
The Brisbane Arts Theatre, as we count down to the opening night of Terry Pratchett's The Truth, in which I play a journalist; and State Parliament, where I have been ensconced since Tuesday, attempting to be a proper journalist.
I hope everyone's getting their tickets sorted to see The Truth - my character's funny little hat is worth the admission price alone. Plus my breasts make more appearances than really necessary. Honestly, I shall have to get them their own agent soon.
As far as parliament goes, it's been a reasonably busy week. Today is the busiest of all, and after a marathon dress rehearsal last night, the most tiring.
I love the media room up here though, just off the viewing balcony of the chamber. It hasn't changed much over the years - except now the sound of typewriters has been replaced by the clacking of laptop keys. You can still see some of those dusty old typewriters - shoved up on top of cabinets, surrounded by precariously-balanced stacks of Hansard and yellowing media releases, giving a grungy, old-school feel to the place.
The cubicles and writing desks are still haphazardly organised and clumsily placed; many bear identifying promo stickers of media organisations that no longer exist. And I swear you can still smell fifty years of stale cigarette smoke bleeding slowly from the wooden panelling.
I sit in a little cordoned-off section near the door to the viewing balcony; my companions are two kick-arse AAP journos who help me out with details I miss while downloading and cutting audio. The rest of the room is home to mostly Courier-Mail politicos and the ABC's radio crew. The "teevs" have their own special, flash studio downstairs.
There was a protest outside today; over 1000 state school cleaners and a bunch of other union members (Rail, Tram and Bus, for some bizarre reason) worried they'll lose their jobs if public-private partnerships to build and maintain new schools go ahead. Their calls of "Shame, Anna, Shame!" could be heard wafting through the walls of the Red Chamber, as the Premier talked about pokies and changes to the liquor licencing, before being asked if she would attend the rally. "I don't think I'm invited," she said. It seems to be one of those weird situations where the rally organisers demand via megaphone that the Premier come out and face them, but sigh with relief when she doesn't. Executive appearances tend to pour a big bucket of water over proceedings.
It'll be back to the office tomorrow, as parliament will rise late tonight once a bunch of laws are pushed through, and the Members will scatter to the far corners of the state in order to conduct traditional Friday electorate business. The next sitting date is the week after next. The play will still be on then - but I don't yet know if I'll be back here, drinking in the intrigue and shenanigan-ism of Queensland Parliament. I do hope so - I'm somewhat fond of this tiny little cubicle.
The Brisbane Arts Theatre, as we count down to the opening night of Terry Pratchett's The Truth, in which I play a journalist; and State Parliament, where I have been ensconced since Tuesday, attempting to be a proper journalist.
I hope everyone's getting their tickets sorted to see The Truth - my character's funny little hat is worth the admission price alone. Plus my breasts make more appearances than really necessary. Honestly, I shall have to get them their own agent soon.
As far as parliament goes, it's been a reasonably busy week. Today is the busiest of all, and after a marathon dress rehearsal last night, the most tiring.
I love the media room up here though, just off the viewing balcony of the chamber. It hasn't changed much over the years - except now the sound of typewriters has been replaced by the clacking of laptop keys. You can still see some of those dusty old typewriters - shoved up on top of cabinets, surrounded by precariously-balanced stacks of Hansard and yellowing media releases, giving a grungy, old-school feel to the place.
The cubicles and writing desks are still haphazardly organised and clumsily placed; many bear identifying promo stickers of media organisations that no longer exist. And I swear you can still smell fifty years of stale cigarette smoke bleeding slowly from the wooden panelling.
I sit in a little cordoned-off section near the door to the viewing balcony; my companions are two kick-arse AAP journos who help me out with details I miss while downloading and cutting audio. The rest of the room is home to mostly Courier-Mail politicos and the ABC's radio crew. The "teevs" have their own special, flash studio downstairs.
There was a protest outside today; over 1000 state school cleaners and a bunch of other union members (Rail, Tram and Bus, for some bizarre reason) worried they'll lose their jobs if public-private partnerships to build and maintain new schools go ahead. Their calls of "Shame, Anna, Shame!" could be heard wafting through the walls of the Red Chamber, as the Premier talked about pokies and changes to the liquor licencing, before being asked if she would attend the rally. "I don't think I'm invited," she said. It seems to be one of those weird situations where the rally organisers demand via megaphone that the Premier come out and face them, but sigh with relief when she doesn't. Executive appearances tend to pour a big bucket of water over proceedings.
It'll be back to the office tomorrow, as parliament will rise late tonight once a bunch of laws are pushed through, and the Members will scatter to the far corners of the state in order to conduct traditional Friday electorate business. The next sitting date is the week after next. The play will still be on then - but I don't yet know if I'll be back here, drinking in the intrigue and shenanigan-ism of Queensland Parliament. I do hope so - I'm somewhat fond of this tiny little cubicle.
Apr 11, 2008
Scars
Due to ongoing attempts to become the Briz Vegas-based reincarnation of Xena: Warrior Princess, I've been getting into fights with roving packs of street toughs again:
That nice big red welt is the latest addition to my ever-growing collection of scars and bruises. Its origins are in fact far more lame: I burned myself on a very hot pan while steaming some carrots and mushrooms. And they say vegetables are good for you.
My skin is rapidly becoming like the surface of some far off distant moon as photographed by the Voyager probe - all pock-marked and asteroid-damaged. Someday soon I'm going to have to run away to join a travelling freak show, and charge punters sixpence a viewing. Not to mention that combined with the mysterious brownish circular bruise below it - I now look like I have a giant exclamation mark carved in my flesh. My right arm couldn't be more surprised.
Has anybody else got some good scar stories? My crowning glory (literally) is the sharp six-centimetre one on the back of my head, suffered during a valiant battle with a trampoline aged 8, and now a talking point for hairdressers when they happen upon it during a trim. But the origins of most of my others are too embarrassing to repeat.
At least not before I get that sixpence.
That nice big red welt is the latest addition to my ever-growing collection of scars and bruises. Its origins are in fact far more lame: I burned myself on a very hot pan while steaming some carrots and mushrooms. And they say vegetables are good for you.
My skin is rapidly becoming like the surface of some far off distant moon as photographed by the Voyager probe - all pock-marked and asteroid-damaged. Someday soon I'm going to have to run away to join a travelling freak show, and charge punters sixpence a viewing. Not to mention that combined with the mysterious brownish circular bruise below it - I now look like I have a giant exclamation mark carved in my flesh. My right arm couldn't be more surprised.
Has anybody else got some good scar stories? My crowning glory (literally) is the sharp six-centimetre one on the back of my head, suffered during a valiant battle with a trampoline aged 8, and now a talking point for hairdressers when they happen upon it during a trim. But the origins of most of my others are too embarrassing to repeat.
At least not before I get that sixpence.
Apr 8, 2008
Time and Relative Dimensions in Cake
'Twas a tasty butter cake too, I might add. However, I must have left out the ingredient that makes it "bigger on the inside", as sadly, it's all been eaten.
Those Daleks sure could exterminate a nice piece of cake:
Girl Clumsy: Baking cakes to impress geeks since 2000.
Those Daleks sure could exterminate a nice piece of cake:
Girl Clumsy: Baking cakes to impress geeks since 2000.
Apr 6, 2008
Cleaning
Why is it that you can clean, and clean, and clean, and clean... and there will always be more dirt?
Why can't it just GO AWAY, if only for a few precious minutes?
I have been in a cleaning whirlwind for the past two days, attempting to ready Chez Clumsy for an urbane and sophisticated gathering of witty raconteurs and bon vivants.
OK, so it's a Doctor Who geek night, but the point remains: the apartment had to be purged, scorched-earth style. Let No Dirt Be Left Behind.
Now I've always considered myself a messy lass, but this whole home-ownership thing has really brought out the house-proud cleanliness Nazi gene that I thought had passed me by. My mother, bless her heart, is dirt's deadliest enemy. Dust, food scraps and rogue hair strands tremble and fold before her vicious wrath. She is a one-woman disinfectant and sterilisation machine.
Back in the day, I used to tell her to chill out, to calm down, that it wasn't as dirty as she thought, and "I'll get to it later, sheesh, I'm trying to watch Blackadder here!" I never understood why it was so important for everything to look like Cinderella's fairy godmother had just given it a twice-over with the Easy Off BAM!
But when I get crazy on a cleaning jag (which admittedly isn't as often as my ma), I completely get it. I descend to Howard Hughes levels of OCD, and start screaming at dirt that won't budge. Dirt you mop up, which then magically reappears. Hairs you sweep up, only to watch them march gaily back across the floor like something out of Fantasia. Seriously, how can we possibly moult that much? I could've stitched together hair extensions for the entire Pussycat Dolls by now.
But finally, tonight, after many hours, the apartment is clean.
However my massive sigh of relief is tempered by the fact that after the shindig, there's going to be mess everywhere, which will require yet another cleaning-up.
Are they absolutely sure Sisiphys was pushing a rock up a hill? Are they sure it wasn't a giant mop?
Why can't it just GO AWAY, if only for a few precious minutes?
I have been in a cleaning whirlwind for the past two days, attempting to ready Chez Clumsy for an urbane and sophisticated gathering of witty raconteurs and bon vivants.
OK, so it's a Doctor Who geek night, but the point remains: the apartment had to be purged, scorched-earth style. Let No Dirt Be Left Behind.
Now I've always considered myself a messy lass, but this whole home-ownership thing has really brought out the house-proud cleanliness Nazi gene that I thought had passed me by. My mother, bless her heart, is dirt's deadliest enemy. Dust, food scraps and rogue hair strands tremble and fold before her vicious wrath. She is a one-woman disinfectant and sterilisation machine.
Back in the day, I used to tell her to chill out, to calm down, that it wasn't as dirty as she thought, and "I'll get to it later, sheesh, I'm trying to watch Blackadder here!" I never understood why it was so important for everything to look like Cinderella's fairy godmother had just given it a twice-over with the Easy Off BAM!
But when I get crazy on a cleaning jag (which admittedly isn't as often as my ma), I completely get it. I descend to Howard Hughes levels of OCD, and start screaming at dirt that won't budge. Dirt you mop up, which then magically reappears. Hairs you sweep up, only to watch them march gaily back across the floor like something out of Fantasia. Seriously, how can we possibly moult that much? I could've stitched together hair extensions for the entire Pussycat Dolls by now.
But finally, tonight, after many hours, the apartment is clean.
However my massive sigh of relief is tempered by the fact that after the shindig, there's going to be mess everywhere, which will require yet another cleaning-up.
Are they absolutely sure Sisiphys was pushing a rock up a hill? Are they sure it wasn't a giant mop?
Apr 3, 2008
Debt-tastic!
Last year I picked up some freelance work with a Brisbane-based glossy magazine. I was getting semi-regular work, which was lovely, but I was - well, concerned - about their pay arrangements.
Sadly, it turns out I wasn't the only one.
It's disappointing for me, and not just because they owe me close to $1500. There's also the fact that the March issue, which features an article I'm quite proud of, may not be distributed (although you can still see my article, if not actually read it, on their website); and the potential for future earnings and portfolio-building has been drastically reduced.
OK, so it's mostly about the cash.
I've got some reason to rejoice though. After hearing John Birmingham's tales of trying to get money out of reluctant magazines at the MEAA dinner a few weeks back, I got the feeling that you're not truly a freelancer until you've been stuffed around by a publication's accounts department. I feel like I may have joined that club now.
But it does make me think about debt. There's plenty of people (well, banks & utilities mostly) that I owe money to, but there's not many people who owe me cash. In fact, there never really has been.
So how does one go about getting the money one's owed? Pester power? Donning boxing gloves and storming their offices? What's the biggest amount someone's ever owed you, and how did you get it back?
Sadly, it turns out I wasn't the only one.
It's disappointing for me, and not just because they owe me close to $1500. There's also the fact that the March issue, which features an article I'm quite proud of, may not be distributed (although you can still see my article, if not actually read it, on their website); and the potential for future earnings and portfolio-building has been drastically reduced.
OK, so it's mostly about the cash.
I've got some reason to rejoice though. After hearing John Birmingham's tales of trying to get money out of reluctant magazines at the MEAA dinner a few weeks back, I got the feeling that you're not truly a freelancer until you've been stuffed around by a publication's accounts department. I feel like I may have joined that club now.
But it does make me think about debt. There's plenty of people (well, banks & utilities mostly) that I owe money to, but there's not many people who owe me cash. In fact, there never really has been.
So how does one go about getting the money one's owed? Pester power? Donning boxing gloves and storming their offices? What's the biggest amount someone's ever owed you, and how did you get it back?
Apr 1, 2008
Selling Up
I've been thinking about this for a while, and I think it's an appropriate time to bring it up now.
I've decided to sell my apartment.
I just can't do the inner-city thing anymore; I really think I need to be back closer to nature. I'm considering heading out to Ipswich, somewhere a little bit more country. Houses are still cheaper there than in Brisbane, and I'll get away from the rough city life, with its increasing crime and poverty problems.
This is going to mean a fair bit of uprooting - the commute to work will be longer and harder, and it will be difficult for the Wah's continuing university studies. But I'm sure we'll make it through. It's just really important for me at this time to be out of the polluted city, breathing fresh air, and running freely through green fields with cows.
In other news, Google has come up with this amazing new technology, which I can't wait to try out. And Virgin Blue have launched a great new discount program - where you get a cheap ticket & free calf massages if you travel without a seat.
I've decided to sell my apartment.
I just can't do the inner-city thing anymore; I really think I need to be back closer to nature. I'm considering heading out to Ipswich, somewhere a little bit more country. Houses are still cheaper there than in Brisbane, and I'll get away from the rough city life, with its increasing crime and poverty problems.
This is going to mean a fair bit of uprooting - the commute to work will be longer and harder, and it will be difficult for the Wah's continuing university studies. But I'm sure we'll make it through. It's just really important for me at this time to be out of the polluted city, breathing fresh air, and running freely through green fields with cows.
In other news, Google has come up with this amazing new technology, which I can't wait to try out. And Virgin Blue have launched a great new discount program - where you get a cheap ticket & free calf massages if you travel without a seat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)