Why Feminist is NOT a dirty word

I've never read any of Isabel Allende's books, but I caught her interview with Andrew Denton on "Elders" this evening.

In one elegant, prosaic statement, Allende - who was one of the first feminist writers in Chile before fleeing into exile when Pinochet took power - sums up perfectly why I call myself a feminist, and why all women should do the same:

I think that young women today don't want to be called feminists because it's not sexy and they think that their mothers and grandmothers have achieved everything they want. They don't know how poor women live, how women in rural places live, how 80 percent of women in the world are the poorest of the poor, how still today there are 27 million slaves, most of them women and girls. Two thirds of the work in the world is done by women. Women own 1 percent of the assets. Young women are sold into prostitution, forced labour, premature marriage, forced to have children they don't want or they can't support. They're abused, raped, beaten up. Domestic violence is supposed to be a cultural problem. They are the first victims of war, fundamentalism, conflict, recession. And young women today who have access to education and health care and have resources think that everything was done, they don't have to worry. Well that makes me really angry. I feel that I have to shake them and say, "No, it's your responsibility to make things happen." The women's revolution, the women's movement was something extraordinary that changed a generation. It began the movement. We still have a lot to do.

I call myself a feminist - but I know there's still much I have to do before I truly earn the title.

Off the Cuff

Tickets are now on sale for Off the Cuff: A Festival of Improvisation. Playing at the Brisbane Powerhouse from 18 to 20 July, it will feature the best players from Sydney, Melbourne and New Zealand, as well as your local favourites.



If you like improvised theatre, comedy, drama - you will love this. There's a smorgabord of shows on offer - check out the website for more details on the schedule. Best of all, it's only $22 adults and $16 concession per night. You can book now through the Powerhouse's website.



We've also got a special deal going for those looking to bring a group along...



Book five or more people - and you all get in for the concession price! Ring the Powerhouse on 3358 8600 for more information.

On Photography

It's now less than one month until Impro Mafia presents Off the Cuff: A Festival of Improvised Theatre at the Brisbane Powerhouse. This is going to be an awesomely awesome three nights of impro - featuring the best players from Sydney, Melbourne and even New Zealand. I highly recommend you check out the running order on the festival website. It's only $22 per night for a smorgasbord of different shows - I can't stress what great value that is for the talent's that on offer.

This year's festival is a much grander affair than last year's "Briz Improv Fest", which in itself was an achievement - the first festival of impro in the River City. The incredibly talented Aurelie Beeston took photographs during the show - and she's very kindly emailed me this brilliant montage during the final night's "Best of the Fest".

As Krusty the Klown might say, "Look at my range!"


Aurelie's already winning awards for her photography, and there's no wonder. I don't quite know how she managed to capture such crisp, clear images during something as frenetic as an impro show, particularly as the lighting in the Metro Arts where we held the event was probably not ideal. It's a testament to her skill and talent.

My only formal education in photography was a Photojournalism course back in my third year of university. I was very excited at the time - it was 2000, and my father had the previous year bought one of the very first digital cameras available. It cost - wait for it - $1000, and had a laughable 1 mega-pixel image quality.

Oh, how we cringe about it now.

Anyway, the photojournalism instructor was an actual freelance photographer, with a black beard so bushy he could store his spare lenses in it. I still see him around the joint at media conferences. On the first day, he took one look at my silver Olympus and dismissed it as an "instamatic toy". I realised then that we were expected to provide our own SLR for the course.

I'm not quite sure how they expected university students to come up with the hundreds of dollars for a proper camera (even a second-hand one), but I decided I couldn't afford it. While I wanted to learn the basics of photography, I wasn't planning on doing more after the semester was over. So I dug out my Dad's old Minolta, which he'd purchased sometime in the late 70s. It held up rather well, actually, and I was pretty impressed with some of the pictures I managed to take with it.

The only problem with the Minolta is that it had the rather annoying habit of sometimes not taking any photos at all. I would click through a whole roll of film, only to discover after getting it developed that every negative was black. I spent a night at a dance class trying to take some dynamic action shots, and discovered three days later nothing came out. Once you pay $8 or so per roll of film, plus $6 to get the negatives developed, it starts becoming an expensive past-time.

That's why the digital revolution is so damn marvellous. When the Wah and I travelled overseas in 2003, we had an Olympus film camera, and we ended up with 32 rolls of film bouncing around in the bottom of our day packs. No more - this time we'll just be lugging the camera, video camera, lap-top and assortment of cables and chargers.

I'm sure it will be easier. Won't it?

I wound up with a credit (a "5") for the photojournalism subject; which I suspect had less to do with innate talent and more to do with my ability at the time to present the photos well in the Powerpoint presentations we were required to assemble.

The thing is, I think I would have done better in the subject had I gotten myself a reliable camera. I really actually love cameras and photography - in fact my interest in the technology, the physical cameras and video cameras, borders on the obsessive. I find myself staring at JB Hi-Fi and VideoPro catalogues, drooling over the cameras pictured inside. I don't actually know what half of the features do, and I wouldn't know how to start properly focusing a lens, but part of me wishes for one of those great big digital SLRs. I would take marvellous, striking, poignant photographs that showed the Truth in the world around me.

Another part of me yearns for a bunch of point-and-shoot models - they're improving all the time and I'd love to have a play. Sadly, I can't justify spending the cash on another camera before this holiday - so the Panasonic 5MP Lumix I got just before the 2006 big trip will have to do. I'm just going to try to think more about my photos before I take them, and to try to learn more about taking good photos. I get frustrated with the number of photos I take that are blurry, over-exposed, under-exposed - just generally crap.

Of course the irony of the digital camera revolution is that more and more journalists are being equipped with cameras and told to take photos while they're out on jobs - to ease the demand on the professional photographers (the cynical would say to get rid of them altogether). Online photographs don't need to be as detailed or as good quality as photos destined for print, but still, sometimes I wish I'd spent a bit more time listening to my grumpy yet knowledgable lecturer.

Apple a day/Doctor away

So I was going to bag out the Cultists of Mac for their toolish behaviour in queuing outside the new Sydney Apple retail store ahead of its opening Thursday night. Some of them even flew from Europe and America to be "the first" in line for their bite of the sweet, sweet, white, uber-hip fruit.

But then I remembered that the reason The Wah and I decided to travel to the UK next month was to see David Tennant play Hamlet at the RSC in Stratford-upon-Avon. Sure, going to Croatia, seeing friends and family and taking in the Edinburgh Fringe Festival were also key attractions. But seeing the Doctor as the Great Dane was the catalyst.

So can I claim to be better than these poor and obviously lonely Apple fans? Can I really throw stones from my high horse, perched upon a pedestal, here in my glass house?

.....

Oh, bugger it. You suck, Apple store junkies. My fan-girl geekiness is way cooler than yours.

Mutant mushroom

Found this amongst the fresh produce yesterday:


I've never come across a real-life amusingly-shaped vegetable before!

This post brought to you by a lack of ideas for proper content.

Give me salavation

In my time as a Proper Radio Newsreader, I've received many compliments about my voice, and my reading style. It's always nice to get those compliments, as obviously having a clear and pleasant voice is a big part of my career.

This morning, though, I'm very excited to present to you my very first critism - sent via SMS and passed on to me by Dave Downey, our awesome fishing expert:

"...please natalie pleae can u read the news without so much moisture in your mouth... it sounds dreadfull..thre must be spittle splattered all over the mic and also your breathing in between sentences is very audable..I've heard u talk normally wen your not reaing the news so why do u make these dreadful sounds wen reading the news?...u seem to read with a mouth full of water....do u have a salavation problem?...geoff carindale"

Now Dave was initially going to tear this up without passing it on to me, but I'm very glad he didn't.I'm equal parts amused and intrigued. I know that certain foods and drinks do tend to encourage saliva production, but I feel like now I've got to listen to myself more to watch for this apparent "salavation problem".

Going Neolithic

I've been trying to improve my video editing skills, and what better footage to use than the Wah and I going stir-crazy over Neolithic monuments in and around Salisbury Plain:

Stonehenge - Avebury - West Kennet Long Barrow - Silbury Hill

Apologies for the strong wind sound - unfortunately Windows Movie Maker (which is mostly sufficient for my needs) doesn't seem to have a function for noise reduction.

I should probably offer apologies also for my Simon Schama impersonation.

This footage was taken back in October 2004. It was our first overseas trip with the video camera, and it's amazing how much I've learned since. Above all - the simpler you keep things with filming, the better. Don't use camera edit effects, try not to pan or tilt or zoom too much, and above all, work out which direction the wind's coming from! Then you've got clean rough footage from which to carve your masterpiece.

They're all valuable lessons, which hopefully will make my little movies from the upcoming Brunei-Croatia-UK trip all the better.

Wimp, schmimp

News stories like this one tend to get me more riled than their stupidity deserves.

Apparently Mr Darcy's "real life" inspiration, James LeFroy, had the hide to NOT look like Colin Firth, the actor who would most famously portray the character over 200 years later.

Instead of being dark and dashing, he apparently had "frail" and "feminine" looks (because he had - gasp - fair hair and pale skin).

Now we'll bypass the fact that James LeFroy, from all accounts, was more of a Willoughby or Wickham-type character than a Darcy. We'll also bypass the fact that miniature paintings of this period are notorious for portraying an "ideal" version of the subject. We'll even bypass the frankly insulting suggestion that Austen had no author's imagination, and MUST have based her character on a living person.

What bugs me is that they're applying today's standards of beauty/masculinity to a person who existed before Nelson copped it sweet at Trafalgar. "Ooh, look at Jane Austen! She was in love with a big girly man! You like that Mr Darcy! Well, how does it feel now you know he was a big wuss? Huh?"

Don't these people realise that not twenty years earlier men were getting around in make-up and powdered wigs? LeFroy looks like some dude from Gladiators by comparison.

No bloke will ever be as good as Mr Darcy, just as no chick will ever be as awesome as Princess Leia in the gold bikini (or whatever your bag is). So just deal with it fellas, all right? The cheap shots are beneath you.

How Did You Find Girl Clumsy?

What do the phrases "honda jazz high pitch noise", "arab boobs in hammam", and "cramping and a hard stomach" have in common?

They are all some of the more eyebrow-raising search terms keen Googlers have used to stumble upon girlclumsy.com.

A few months ago I signed on to Google Analytics and installed the tracking code on the blog here. A few weeks ago I pondered why the data gathering seemed to have stopped - then I realised they would have been lost during my recent template makeover.

So I reinstalled, and while looking through the back-up-and-running reports, I examined my keyword searches, getting confused and amused along the way.

Coming in at number one and two (with a whole three searches each) are the phrases "flashpacking" and "girlclumsy sellout and the city". But they're not too surprising really. A few searches for variations of my nickname - girl clumsy, GirlClumsy, clumsy - round out the top five, but then things start getting interesting.

Coming in at number 12 is the extraordinary "'his penis' me flashers or perverts -fisting -anal", just ahead of "spencer jolly" at number 13. This has settled an age-old question for me on what's more popular - sexual fetishes or Channel Nine political journalists. Who woulda thunk it?

Further down at 18 is "arab boobs in hammam", with "boobie bungalow" at number 20. Again, somewhat surprised that boobs are so in-demand on the internet. I thought we used this great international tool to connect with people. Obviously I was assuming we'd connect brain-to-brain.

My adventures in Morocco at least seem to be helpful to some people: at 21 is "buy condoms in fez morocco", with "chefchaouen hash" at 22. I don't recall doing either of those things during my time in Morocco, but perhaps I'd been too distracted by the hammam boobies.

"Clumpsy virgin getting bumped by some guy" was number 24, which surely must be the most awkward porno title ever.

The unfortunate feminine hygiene issues I suffered during the Trans-Mongolian rail journey crop up a fair bit, with "cramping and a hard stomach", "'diflucan' scratch myself" and "don't get stomach cramps" at 28, 29 and 30.

The 40s have some interesting search terms: the mystifying "honda jazz high pitch noise" at 41; the question we all ask at some point "how do I find the value of my faberge egg" at 42; "how to write a love song/format" at 43; and "im so clumsy and miserable" at 44, which I can't believe I hadn't thought of myself as the catchphrase for this site.

I must admit to giggling heartily at search term number 55 - "my wife won't adopt my surname" - as I'm fairly certain the dude who typed that one in wouldn't have liked my views on that topic at all.

Some further investigation found that the person who searched for "nipple pierced strippers" is located in South Africa, and I certainly hope he went on to find his preferred type of exotic dancer, especially amidst all that crazy social unrest going on there right now.

Porn rears its ugly head again at number 61 with "pics horse urine girl". Isn't it great to see people incorporating both bestiality and golden showers into their love lives? Search term 71 seems to be about a commercial I certainly have never seen - "tampon gets stuck to a dog advert". Ewww.

Number 75 made me cheer - "the truth terry pratchett play brisbane". Hooray! Someone searching for a topic I actually wrote about! But 79 plunged me back into confusion: "woman long hair brusing & oiling photo gallery". I don't recall putting up any self-portaits of me liberally applying Winn's Spitfire, and I haven't had long hair for years.

Coming in at number 81 - the last on my list of search terms - is "£5 haircut". Now I did have one of those back in 2004 in Soho, London. But I'm not sure if my experience of having my mane chopped by a Portugese woman is really what that Googler was looking for.

So how did you find Girl Clumsy? Did you come for the witty banter - or did you just get waylaid in your hunt for extreme pornography?

Carried Away

Back in October, I wrote this piece about the Sex and the City movie.

I may have had some reservations, but hell, it's Sex and the City, and there was no way I was going to miss an opening day screening.

I'm glad to say it was a worthy successor to the TV series, and some of my predictions thankfully came true.

Beware of spoilers if you continue reading!

While it began like an ad for Bride magazine and a massive suck up to the world's top designers, I knew the love-in couldn't last. Thankfully, and not too implausibly, Carrie was stood up at the altar by Mr Big, who cannot be accused of inconstancy, if only for the fact that his inconstancy is constancy of some measure. Hooray. A marvellously gloomy grim forewarning to young ladeez everywhere that a goddamn glitzy wedding is NOT what it's all about. Click click, mmm-hmm, that's right girlfriend.

So the Vivienne Westwood-gifted frou-frou dress, with accompanying bird headdress, was boxed up, with Carrie & Co re-routed to Mexico to make the best out of a bad honeymoon situation.

The fabulous Samantha, always the guts and splendour of the series, returns to form here, after being tamed by the tinsel of Hollywood and monogamy. Her seaside LA home may be all glass and light, but never before has Samantha been so boxed in.

Miranda's marital woes begin in the bedroom, and end in an apartment on the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge. Steve makes a terrible mistake, one quite rightly to be harshly punished, but is Miranda too inflexible? Her story will spark the most controversy among fans, her choice the most debatable.

Of all, Charlotte's plotline is the weakest, save for a deep feeling of gloom that her life remains picture perfect while all around her are in turmoil. She has, however, the dubious honour of the most disgusting yet hilarious physical mishap in the film. As the writers have Carrie say, "I think you're done."

Big is as Big always was: at once the hero and the villain. Steve's error is uncharacteristic, but he remains a good man (what do you do to become a bad man?, one asks). We don't see nearly enough of Stanford and Anthony, and Harry's appearances are charming as always. Smith Jerrod is under-used - his enforced separation from Samantha due to being required on movie sets denies us more glimpses of his Absolut hunk pecs and sending Samantha do-lally over Dante her naughty LA neighbour (warning: wang alert!).

The addition of Jennifer Hudson as Carrie's assistant, St Louise from St Louis, proves a tactical manueovre - while not really necessary to the film's plot, Louise does help motivate Carrie to return to the land of the living, and remind her that being hopeful is always more rewarding than being fatalistic.

And as for Carrie herself - she remains flawed yet flawless, wronged yet doing wrong. Carrie is at once a glamourous fantasy, and a realistic 40-something woman. It's only the clothes that change. And, vindicating my own opinion back in October, the labels that don't exist that really count.

There are moments of unbelievability, moments of outrage, moments of stupidity, moments of unreality. But always there is the friendship of the four main characters. That is, was and always has been the magic of Sex and the City, the chemistry not between the four main actors and their onscreen beaux, but the chemistry between the actors themselves. Watching Sex and the City makes me wish I had the same level of intimacy with girlfriends; I envy that relationship more than I envy any of the romantic ones. It carried the series, and it carries the movie. So I declare the film imperfect, as they all are, but worthy nonetheless.

Now - what did you think of Sex and the City?

But is is art?

Here's a picture of a bunch of happy improvisers, backstage before last night's Extreme Impro show at the Brisbane Arts Theatre:


Now imagine these same happy improvisers... taking their clothes off.

We'd been forewarned by the MC Tom that he was keen on pushing performers to the edge. Thankfully, he included in this warning his plan to play a game called "Strip Questions", which would entail players removing items of clothing if they failed to ask a question every time they spoke. It allowed us to raid the theatre's wardrobe for some special costume pieces, still in storage after a BAT production of The Full Monty a few years back.

The game was never going to be clean, but Tom's decision to set it in a church really made me wonder if I have in fact strayed too far into Beelzebub's territory. Oh well, it's just my immortal soul. Tristan was the first to remove something - his shoes and socks, very demure. It didn't stay that way, as Greg shortly afterwards grabbed at the top of his trousers, and with a thundering tear of velcro and stud hooks, ripped away the stripper pants to reveal a pair of red boxer shorts with "STUD" written across the crotch. As the navy material soared over the first three rows before landing in the aisle, I entered stage right, in character (barely) as a policeman.

It wasn't long before my inability to think clearly resulted in a statement. Seven milliseconds I believe was the official time. I should've gone with the shoes, considering they were just ballet flats. But instead I ripped off my official Impro Mafia t-shirt, revealing a purple shirt underneath. I blundered again, shrugged and ripped off the purple shirt, revealing a red camisole with glittery appliqué over the décolletage.

I fluffed another line. Time for the pants. I ripped at my waistline and the pants came asunder, revealing my own pair of "STUD" boxers. I think there were cheers from the crowd but I couldn't be certain, as the stud hooks on my right leg had refused to budge. I stood awhile tearing at the material to free it, while other players entered and began stripping, and Greg and Tristan lost even more. My big surprise came when Tristan tore off his shirt and turned to face me, with twin nipple piercings glinting under the stage lights.

This was it. I was in a red cami and boxer shorts. I had pre-planned my underwear - a pink bra and pink-and-white small shorts. I struggled to say anything - for my life I couldn't think of a question to ask, but I daren't open my mouth for fear of being forced to remove more clothes. I was stunned, like a bunny in headlights. I had two thoughts running in my head:

"I can't take off my shirt - they'll see my belly!" and;

"I can't take off my shorts - they'll see my thighs!"

Eventually, after Wade's entrance "I'm the pope!" (rip) and Liam's line of "I'm St Peter!" (rip), the whole stage was trashed. Clothes everywhere, the audience laughing, screaming, crying in terror - who knows. I just thought - it has to end now, before the goodwill disappears, and before I have to take off any more clothes.

So I jumped to the front of the stage and said 'Hang on - am I dreaming?" and brought the scene down.

We then took a few moments to scramble around for our garments, before beating a hasty retreat to side of stage to redress.

Impro is all about taking risks, and for many people, the idea of getting onstage at all is too terrifying for words. As a natural and shameless attention-seeker, it suits me to a tee. I've always loved performing - but I've always had body issues. Well, I am a western woman.

I'm not sure if removing a fair amount of clothing on stage has done anything for those body issues - I don't think it's likely I'll be auditioning for Steaming* anytime soon. But it was certainly - like that time I jelly-wrestled - an experience.

And experiences are good things to have, even if it does mean signing over your soul to the Devil and all his little minions.