Lousy Swine

Swine flu is here, and like it or not, there's a hive (sty?) of activity going on in Queensland in relation to this porky plague. This morning, I suited up to visit the pathology labs at the Royal Brisbane Hospital. By "suited up", I mean I got to wear a cool visitors' badge:

I was hoping to pick up superpowers, but no,
they made me wash my hands for safety.

We watched while Health Minister Paul Lucas toured the labs, looking through microscopes at blood samples, and various impressive pieces of machinery:

"But why does it look like a large photocopy centre?"

You might be pleased to know they don't yet have an easy, quick diagnosis for swine flu - rather, they're testing for Influenza A, then the H5N1 strain of avian flu. Only after ruling out all that - and, I assume, the sniffles and the "Man Flu" - do they send off the samples to a WHO testing centre in Melbourne to cross-check with their profile of swine flu. So far, Australia remains swine flu-free.

I for one am waiting for ovine, bovine, caprine, lapine, murine and piscine influenzas, to complete the full Barnyard Variety Gift Box of Potentially Pandemic Viruses. My favourite though? Assinine flu.

Sandilands Snr

We all know that shock jock and Australian Idol judge Kyle Sandilands couldn't possibly be as hardcore as he'd like to think he is.

But I tell you what - he comes from hardcore fracking stock.

I was on Anzac Day duty this morning, which meant covering the dawn service, filing some stories, then heading back into the city for the parade. And it just so happened that the very first digger I approached for an interview during the march turned out to be Kyle Sandilands' grandfather.

"Gordon Sandilands," he said, when I asked for his name. "Do you know Kyle Sandilands?" he asked, as I checked the spelling. "Well, he's my grandson." I asked if that was where Kyle got his attitude from. "Probably, probably," he laughed. "He makes my hair stand on end sometimes, but still."

And it turns out Gordon Sandilands is, in fact, quite hardcore. An artillery officer, he served in Syria during WWII - until he lost his left arm. He was then shipped back to Australia, where he trained soldiers bound for New Guinea - one arm and all.

I'm always wary of pressing veterans too much on Anzac Day. Most, like Gordon, are happy enough to have a chat, but it's often an emotional time for them, and I get a bit uncomfortable with the thought of asking "So, tell me what it was like facing down three dozen of Hirohito's finest knee-deep in mud on the Kokoda Track?"

Still, I wish I'd been brave enough to ask Gordon Sandilands exactly how he lost his arm, and moreover, whether his famous descendant realises how lucky he is to live in a country where he can shoot his mouth off about jelly bellies, tuckshop-lady arms, Dave Hughes and Frenzal Rhomb free from the fear of a jackboot landing square on his over-opinionated face.

To blokes like Gordon, thank you. Your efforts helped ensure we can all slag off blokes like Kyle without fear of reprisal.

If you'd like to hear one of my voice reports on the dawn service, click here.

Robo T-Rex!

First full day back of parliament; first Hard Hat Job of the new Bligh era:

We donned the fluro orange safety vests and hard hats on River Terrace at Kangaroo Point. For years it's been the site of a TAFE campus; but those buildings are now being demolished to make way for new public parkland overlooking the Brisbane River. Which is kind of nice, really.

What was really cool about this hard hat job was the method of demolition. No plunger linked to explosives sadly, and no ACME-brand wrecking ball, but what I dubbed the "Robo Tyrannosaurus Rex" was pretty fracking awesome nonetheless:

ROAR! ROBO T-REX DEMANDS BRICKS!

Parliament & Pantyhose

Today was the official opening of the 53rd Queensland parliament.

I am on parliament duty this week (and actually, quite happy to be so), and decided to commemorate the occasion by doing something I haven't done in years.

I wore pantyhose.

Despite being quite used to tights during my high school days, I shrugged them off upon graduating and have managed to successfully avoid any long-term exposure to them since. Sure, the odd trip to the northern hemisphere or ski slopes has required a pair of thermals, or a big fancy party might necessitate whipping out the nylons. But life in South-East Queensland is for the most part blessedly warm enough to leave my legs bare most of the year. When it gets chilly I generally just go with pants.

They're funny things, pantyhose. You really do need to get used to them. For starters, I wrecked one pair straight away this morning by pulling them on overly enthusiastically and tearing a giant ladder all the way up my calf. Now far be it from me to prevent everyone getting their Stairway to Heaven jokes in, but I just didn't think it would go with the classy look I was trying to project for the first day of observing our state's new representative democracy in action.

Luckily it was a twin pack of beige tights, so I quickly peeled out the other pair and put them on - much more carefully this time. The feeling is odd. Constricting, but not crushing. Like a firm meshy film all over your legs. They are quite lovely on the feet, and can  prevent some of the chafing that wearing nothing with your heels can bring. But I'm always aware that I'm wearing them - and that's with freshly smooth legs. I think wearing hosiery when you've got leg stubble growing through must one of the most cloying feelings I can imagine. It's like having worker ants bustling up and down your pins stabbing you with lots of tiny daggers.

Ladies can identify with the waist issues too. You really have two options with the waistband of pantyhose. You can either fold it down around your hips, or pull it so far up it virtually reaches your armpits. Either way, it's never going to stay that way. At some point in the day you'll have to repair to the ladies' room to have a quick shifty under your shirt to unfurl the roll of nylon accumulated like a synthetic eel around your middle.

And after all that, I really needn't have bothered with the pantyhose. I'm still just a radio journo, and spent most of my day in my tiny cubicle listening to the chamber audio feed through my earphones. They did make me feel a bit more "grown-up" though, I will admit. Well, at least until I found myself gorging on delectable mini-eclairs and pecan caramel tarts at the Speaker's Green post-opening tea party. Thankfully a young Labor minister had taken pity on me and a couple of other starving journos and let us hoe into their intricately presented plates of posh sandwiches and sweet treats. I had been hanging out for scones with cream, which I thought would be a lay down misere at a garden party with the Governor. But I suffered through the cakes regardless, my rapidly bloating gullet a reminder that I was not so grown up and classy as I should wish to be. Also, that I would have to make another trip to the loo to fix the frigging pantyhose waistband again.

As I left the Parliamentary Annexe not long after, I ran straight into the Treasurer, Andrew Fraser. Some of you may remember him from the opening night of He Died with a Felafel in His Hand. He asked how the show was going, describing it as, and I quote, "a cracker".

I told him that we were starting to sell out houses, and starting to receive complaints. "Why so much foul language?" and "What's wrong with the young people today?" I mimicked at him. I then mimed typing a reply email with the phrase "Well - the Treasurer liked it!"

And he laughed.

And I felt rather pleased with myself.

Until I realised I still had a large chunk of turkey and cranberry sandwich lodged between my teeth.

Yup, classy as ever.

"Felafel"-inspired Smackdown

Folks, I write to you as one very happy bunny. I didn't get to watch tonight's performance of Felafel - BECAUSE ALL THE SEATS WERE FULL. That's right, our first sell-out show.

I believe the internet-appropriate term is EPIC WIN.

This was on top of Friday night's show, which attracted 102 people - including the Burgers Uamada, Moko (with his lovely wife) and Drej (all the way from Broome! Broome, people!), entertainment writer Brett Debritz and some random dude from the ABC. Our merchandise continues to sell well, takings at the bar are plentiful - this show has been an absolute boon to the theatre. Everyone with any significant involvement in the theatre knows it, and my cast and crew are being lauded with appropriate compliments.

Do you sense a "but" marching steadily but surely towards this conversation?

Well, be not afeard. It's actually very amusing - I got my first proper complaint!

I got this in my inbox after Friday night's show:

My companions and I left the Arts Theatre at the interval during the play on Tuesday [editor's note: he means Thursday] wondering what gratuitous obscenity and pornography had to do with Art and Culture. We have been members of the theatre for many years but now must re-consider our support for the sadly perverted production staff who foisted their idiosyncratic concept of culture us. We note that our objection to obscenity, paraded in the guise of culture, seems to be a sentiment shared by many other members of the theatre.

I note that in the ‘On-line Cues’ Natalie feels obliged to commend to us a meeting with the author of the play, I presume to provide him with an opportunity to explain his perverted concept of culture to us. Little man, get educated. Natalie, try and persuade him to read the great literature of the world. Try and help him discover Hemingway, Camus, Satre to name a few, and to reat and local literates like Nick Earle. Natalie. read and educate yourself, find out what language and its power really are. Natalie, your production and your use of 4BC to advertise the obscene diminishes any nascent reputation that you may have had. It is time that you grew up and became educated."

You know sometimes in life, you just have to sit back, accept the honest emotional feedback from others, and feel secure in your own self about your efforts on a particular project, criticism notwithstanding - and just let it go.

This, however, was not one of those times.

I fired off the email to John Birmingham and playwright Squire Bedak (because I know how much they enjoy a laugh), and set about composing a reply. You wanna fight with intellectual art wankery? Come and lay down, my friend:

Thank you for taking the time to email me about your experience at “He Died with a Felafel in His Hand”. I would like to address some of the key points in your email, in the hope that we might foster better communication and understanding among members of the theatre. I, too, am a long-standing member of the BAT (10 years now – that’s more than one-third of my life). It is like a second-home to me – I’m sure you have a similar fondness for the place.

You say you are an active supporter of the theatre; you would know then from the emergency AGM last November and the AGM in March this year just how difficult a financial situation the theatre faces. You would know, I’m sure, of my pledge at that meeting last November to put my all into doing everything I can to help keep the theatre going. Since then, I have organised a highly successful garage and memorabilia sale that raised over $4500 for the theatre. As President of Impro Mafia, the BAT’s resident improvised comedy company, I produced and performed in “Prognosis: Death!”, a show that provided a much-needed cash injection of over $2500 for the theatre. Both events also brought widespread publicity to the theatre’s plight.

I am sorry “He Died with a Felafel in His Hand” was not your cup of tea. I did place a large red banner on the poster (and on all publicity material) that warned “Contains Explicit Content and Adult Themes”. The BAT staff who took bookings regularly let inquirers know about the nature of the show. The book itself has been in print since 1994 – a simple Google search will turn up many reviews, including details of some of its more graphic content.

As far as involving my employer, 4BC: I am relatively well-versed in the area of marketing/demographics, and was well aware that the average 4BC listener is not my target audience member. The two times I have discussed the show on-air were in response to requests from announcers. The first was part of Ian Maurice’s regular Arts/What’s On segment. The second was on Peter Dick’s program, in which he mostly talked about the theatre itself in response to a profile article about me featured in that day’s Courier-Mail. I specifically mentioned during that interview that the current show is probably not one that would appeal to 4BC listeners. But I stressed that it’s important to provide a variety of shows to cater to the entire community.

Here I reach my own key point. The Brisbane Arts Theatre is a theatre for the community. That community includes young people (roughly 20 to 40 years), which is the key demographic for “He Died with a Felafel in His Hand.” This is a section of our community that has been under-represented at the theatre in recent years. The reason why it’s important to cater for this demographic is because they have jobs, and they have large disposable incomes. You will be pleased to know that “Felafel” is attracting an average audience of 70 people per show. At that rate, the show is on track to make $30,000 for the theatre. You have described John Birmingham as uneducated and perverted; I wonder if you might change your mind on hearing that both he and playwright Simon Bedak have not only donated their time to watch the play and speak about it, but are actually donating their share of the rights back to the theatre! They both want it to survive, and that action means most of that $30,000 will stay in the theatre.

John Birmingham certainly does not need me to defend him, but I would like to mention a few things about him to you. He is one of the most widely-read people I have ever met. He is in fact a fan of writers such as Hemingway, whom you mentioned in your email. Like Hemingway, John has used autobiographical details in his novels. Like Hemingway (a noted alcoholic), John has turned his own experiences with drugs into literature. And literature it is – “Felafel” is now commonly found on the reading lists of senior high school and university literature students, along with Brisbane contemporary Nick Earls. Literature is no longer reserved to the “dead white males” of the British imperial era – anything from Virginia Woolf’s “Mrs Dalloway” to Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart” to Chuck Palaniuk’s “Fight Club” is studied with the same care as Shakespeare, Milton, Eliot or Tolkien.

You also brought up Jean Paul Satre - the English literature student in me (Bachelor of Arts/Bachelor of Journalism) finds it amusing to compare “Felafel” to one of his most famous quips. With the manic stream of bizarre and dysfunctional characters featured in our play, it truly embodies the idea that “hell is other people”.

The Brisbane Arts Theatre has been providing entertainment to our River City for 73 years. In order to continue operating for another 73 (and more!) it needs to focus on providing the community around it with the type of shows they want to see. The theatre sits in the electorate of Mt Coot-tha, and 47 per cent of all voters are aged between 18 and 44, and one in five people are between 18 and 24 (www.andrewfrasermp.com). “Felafel” is the kind of show we need to schedule regularly, to ensure our younger audiences are getting an introduction to theatre, and seeing shows they want to see.

Of course, there was never any plan to exclusively perform plays featuring, as you describe it, “gratuitous obscenity and pornography”. As I mentioned earlier, the theatre is for the community, and a range of shows are programmed each year to make sure all demographics are catered for. We have our renowned Children’s Theatre and our popular Seniors for Seniors program. Our next production, “A Hero’s Funeral”, is written by former High Court judge Ian Callinan, and is a family drama that reflects on the life of a former WW2 pilot and cricketer. Later in the year, we will be staging “Man of La Mancha”, a musical for the whole family. October will see “Maskerade”, our latest production of a Terry Pratchett novel adaptation, which always attracts a niche fantasy/comedy literary audience. And our final show is a farce comedy “Funny Money”, which will no doubt put audiences in the Christmas spirit.

Finally, I would put it to you that a theatre is not a “guardian of the public morality”. People are free to choose which shows they attend, and whether the subject matter is “good” or “bad” is completely subjective – just as whether it can be described as “Art” or “Culture” is subjective. I enjoy a lot of modern Art, but don’t particularly like Barnett Newman’s “Adam” at the Tate Modern in London. However, I wouldn’t declare it ‘rubbish’ just because I don’t like it.

I have a talented cast and a dedicated crew who have staged an incredible production that has delighted 99 per cent of people who’ve come along to see it. Surely this is a mark of success. Hopefully the financial boost “Felafel” gives to the theatre is more important than any argument between members over the “moral merits” of such a show. The majority of people are enjoying themselves, enjoying the theatre, buying drinks and merchandise (adding to our profit margin), and most importantly of all, spreading the word about the theatre.

At the end of the day, I do not care for my “nascent reputation”. I care about the Brisbane Arts Theatre, and doing all I can to help keep it going. If I can go to sleep each night, knowing that the theatre is still there, waiting for the next show, the next rehearsal, the next bunch of kids wanting to act, dance, sing and have fun – then that is enough for me.

Grandad

As I lay in bed late last night, slowly drifting off to sleep, I suddenly realised something had passed me by - the 20th anniversary of my paternal grandfather's death.

It came to me due to a convergence of thoughts. I had been reading up on the Hillsborough disaster, which was 20 years ago today. 96 Liverpool fans were crushed to death due to over-crowding during an FA Cup semi-final. I had memories as a kid of watching people crammed against metal fences, or desperately trying to pull themselves out by hanging onto proferred hands from seating terraces above them. A terrible tragedy that still hurts deep in Liverpool to this day.

Earlier in the day, due to a John Birmingham Blunt Instrument column, I'd been thinking about my old backyard at Albany Creek. I'd suffered a nasty gash to the back of the head in that backyard when I'd accidentally pulled the trampoline down on my head (I have not gained any grace in the intervening years). Then I remembered why my Mum was so panicked when I presented my bleeding noggin to her - my Dad wasn't there. He was in Vanuatu for Grandad's funeral.

I can't remember the date for certain, but something about April 9th sounded right. This means the 20th anniversary of his death passed last week, and I didn't mark it. I felt sorry for this, so am resolved to write a little about Maceij Tadeusz Bochenski. I say a little, because when I think about it - I don't really know that much for certain about him. Except that he had the most interesting and wonderful life.

He was born in 1917. His family was Polish, and he was the latest in a long line of seamen. As I understand, his family came from a part of Poland nearer the border with the Ukraine. Of course, Poland had had somewhat permeable borders for a few hundred years. I understand my great-grandfather was some sort of ambassador to Russia, and I believe my Grandad was born in Vladivostok - a port city. He had two older sisters, Irina and Soska. My Grandad was only a few months old at the time the shot was fired from the cruiser Aurora, signalling the start of the October Revolution. But I believe the family remained in Russia until the mid-1920s, when Stalin's crushing Five Year Plans prompted them to take a train back to Poland.

I am not sure of the family's financial situation at this time - I understand my Grandad had a reasonably privileged education, as he was proficient in mathematics and spoke five languages (English, German and French, as well as Polish and Russian). But I know they had a certain amount of land somewhere, and possibly even a heraldic title equivalent to something like "Count". Now, titles and things like that were scrapped for good by the good ol' Pinko Bolshie Ruskis, but that doesn't stop me referring to myself as a "Countess" whenever I'd like to seem more mysterious and exotic than I really am. Pairing it with a Russian tweak of my name works best: "I am the Countess Natalya! Bring me smoked fish, and rubies!"

By the age of 17, my Grandad had joined the Polish Navy. On the wall of my apartment, I have a copy of a famed print of the dancer spy Josephine Baker. My Grandad actually saw her perform live in Paris. My grandmother said "All he could remember was Josephine and her bananas".

When the Germans invaded Poland in 1939, my Grandad was an officer onboard one of the navy ships that immediately got the hell outta the Baltic and put themselves under British control. Between the Germans and the Russians, most of the Polish educated and elite who were left were rounded up and shot around this time - all part of ensuring no rebellion against the armed masses of Nazism on one side and Communism on the other. Poor Poland was to be carved up once more.

I don't know the extent of my Grandad's experiences in the war. I am determined now to learn more. I do know that he was onboard a ship torpedoed by Germans during the Battle of Narvik in 1940; I believe it must have been a British ship. He was in the freezing water for an hour before being plucked at; my Gran recounted the story of him swimming back into consciousness and attacking people for trying to take his lifejacket off him - which they were doing, but only to get him warm!

My Gran had served in the WRNS during the war, and they met while stationed in the same port (which I cannot recall right now) not long after it finished. Gran has said he used to call her every night at 7 o'clock. This would ensure she stayed on the phone talking to him, instead of racing out with her fellow WRNS to party away with submariners or whatever other depraved company a young girl of 20-odd might keep. My Gran - whose amply bosomy form has passed down to me - also once declared to me that "if your Grandad had been a leg man, we never would have married."

Whatever it was, they married in 1947 in Southhampton, and set off for a honeymoon in India, where they trekked through Kashmir and other crazy places. My Grandad refused to return to Poland (most likely due to the ongoing risk of death-by-Russians), and so they found themselves in Basra, Iraq, where Grandad worked piloting ships up the Shatt al-Arab. This was, of course, before Saddam Hussein and the B'ath Party, a time when being an expatriate Brit (or in this case, Pole) meant the world was your oyster. My father was born there in the hot August summer in 1951; he took three days to pilot his way out of the birth canal, and my Gran says Grandad promptly fainted when he saw my Dad's elongated freaky head.

By 1956, the family had shifted across the world to New Zealand, where my uncle Jan was born. Helena followed in 1963. By then, my Grandad had begun sailing trade ships up into Pacific, and in the early 60s they bought land for about 30 cents and a bottle of Pernod off the British/French condominium government of New Hebrides, and set up child-raising in the tropics. My Grandad's language skills were often called on, as ships from all manner of countries would stop by Port Vila to drop off powdered milk and other supplies. He and my Gran also set up one of the country's first tourism companies, which my Gran would run with an iron first while my Grandad slipped back away to sea.

My Dad followed in his footsteps, joining the merchant navy at 17 after high school in New Zealand. He married my Mum on the island of Espiritu Santo in 1979 - the same place I spent the first two years of my life. Gran and Grandad were still based in Vila, and I was too young to remember their visits. There are photos of me with Grandad though - mostly swimming. I sadly didn't inherit the love of boats from Grandad or my Dad - I get easily seasick. But I did get the love of water. Shallow, calm, warm water.

We still saw my grandparents every year when we moved to Australia, eventually settling in Brisbane. But by the mid-80s, he had developed Alzheimer's disease, and his memory was going. I remember him as a kind man with clear blue eyes.

I remember, on that April morning, my Mum telling my brother and I that "Grandad had passed away". I was eight years old, and didn't much have the cranial capacity to understand much more than "that's really sad". He was buried at sea, just outside the entry to Vila Harbour, which is one of the most beautiful harbours in the world.

Ten years later, my Gran went to Buckingham Palace to receive an MBE from the Queen, for over 30 years of dedicated service to the Red Cross. We celebrated with a lunch onboard a boat moored on the Thames, and I remember how happy my Gran was - her only regret that my Grandad wasn't there with her. But I'm absolutely sure he would have been very proud.

Maciej Tadeusz Bochenski was a Pole, a sailor, a traveller, an explorer, an adventurer and a survivor. Above all, he was my Grandad, and I'm very grateful for the childhood moments I had with him. I would like to hope he'd be proud of me too.

Prepare for take-off

Planes. They're happening places these days, aren't they?

"Welcome aboard FU Flight 2 to Back of Beyond.

Please observe our ridiculously attractive cabin crew as they present this air safety demonstration for you.

Your tray tables and seat backs are to remain in the upright position for take-off and landing. Our cabin crew’s breasts are to remain in the upright position at all times. Failure to do so will result in immediate dismissal. That, and if we find out any of them are over 25.

We would like to remind you that no smoking is permitted in the onboard toilets. Please reserve these for mid-air trysts with Hollywood actors, and, if you must, doing number twos just to watch them get vacuum-sucked away at 75 kilometres an hour. In all cases, please leave the cubicles in a presentable condition. Particularly after any encounters with Ralph Fiennes or the chicken cacciatore. Both are equally nasty.

If you are secretly pregnant and need a place to give birth, please contact one of our friendly cabin crew. They will assist you with breathing techniques, refresher towlettes - and provide a FU Air Children’s Fun Activity Pack for the newborn.

In the event of an emergency, oxygen masks will drop from the overheard compartments. Place these over your mouth and nose and breathe normally. Please refrain from Christopher Skase impressions, as it is out-of-date material and our Gen-Y crew won’t understand what you’re doing.

A life-jacket is contained in a bag under your seat. In the event we pull off a super-impressive water landing like that dude on the Hudson River a few months’ back, please place over your head, and tie around your waist. Please refrain from making cracks about the light and whistle being ineffective. The over-sized lady behind you believes in shit like this. (She’s also the one we’ll be tossing out of the life-raft first, OK?)

Any references to Snakes on a Plane will be punishable by death. Any references to Alive will be punishable by forcing you to watch both Steve Martin Pink Panther remakes non-stop from Dubai to Singapore. Choose wisely.

This air safety announcement can be re-delivered in numerous styles. Please go to your inflight entertainment screen and select from the following options: rap, jazz, William Shatner-style spoken word, interminably dull Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, shadow puppetry, Holocaust drama or WWE cage match.

Thank you for flying FU Air. Remember, with us, it's about the destination, not the journey. And on behalf of the captain and crew - a big “FU” to you too!"

Ahh. I can't wait for my next vacation.

Byline!

Today marked my first day back at work after my rather wonderful break. It was a nice start back - a quick jaunt to the Magistrates Court to see Jayant Patel's committal hearing adjourned for two weeks, then out to the station to sift through approximately 300 emails (mostly Police Media round-ups, to be fair).

I then headed down to Logan Central police station to attend a media conference about a young lad who's been missing for over a week. His poor parents were speaking out, urging him to phone home.

I did up some stories for the radio, then had a bit of an idea. I bashed out a few pars for print, then sent it through to the Brisbane Times, which is our "sister" media outlet. They didn't have a journo there, so I thought it might be of use.

And they published it!

That's the one thing that's so wonderful about print media - the byline. You just don't really get that sense of "ownership" of a story in radio. They're such fleeting, transparent things, lost in soundwaves as soon as the words are uttered.

And yes, I know it's fairly callous to be patting myself on the back while a family waits for their son to come home. Welcome to the cynical, moral-compass-confused life of a journo.

Greg of North Maclean

Poor Greg of North Maclean. I worry I may have made his life a misery.

Backstory: Greg of North Maclean was the home reviewer Spencer Howson on 612 ABC breakfast very kindly sent along to the second night of He Died with a Felafel in His Hand. He subsequently gave his honest opinions of the show on the radio. The best line being "A Show You Wouldn't Take Your Wife To" (my commemorative badges stating just that are on their way).

Now there's been a great response to Greg's review - it's garnered a lot of attention, and it's been a fun little poker that's helped keep the Felafel fires burning.

What I didn't expect is for the controversy to hit the street press. A few of my wonderfully talented and rather attractive cast members did a photoshoot with mX last week, and it landed in news-stands this afternoon. Somehow, they found out about Greg of North Maclean:

I must admit to being tickled pink at this - it's rare to get an article accompanying a promo shot in mX, so I'm glad they picked up on the story. But a part of me does somewhat hope that they don't have high-speed broadband or mX distribution in North Maclean.

I Don't Understand Fashion

I know shop store mannequins are supposed to be oddly dressed. But surely this is insanity:

It looks like someone ate seven different types of gelati, then threw up in a clothes dryer.

The slogan of the new range is "Romance Was Born".

Romance was born? Where? In court jester's convention?

In other fashion news, I recently bought a great pair of dark blue denim jeans from Target. They were just $40.

I f***ing love Target.

Yesterday, I saw the same pair of jeans on special for $28. I contemplated getting a lighter wash. Then I thought "Stuff it. I'm a darkwash girl."

So now, I have two pairs of the exact same type of jeans. They fit well, improve the general appearance of my legs, and match all my tops.

This is why I suspect I will never be fashionable.

April Fool in Melbourne

I have a love/hate relationship with Melbourne, I really do.

I mean, on paper, it's my kind of city. A sense of ye-olde-worlde-ness, full of neat architecture, an arts & cultural hub, and most of all - flat (Ah! Bless Melbourne's "slight inclines". I could wander around all day). But I just find something really off-putting about the city's airs about itself as the Centre of the Freaking Universe. Oh yes, Melbourne. You have Wicked. Aren't you great. You have the Australian Open and the Grand Prix and the Boxing Day Test and Rove Live. La di da. And I don't know whether its all Melbournites themselves creating this, or people who move there and declare everywhere else is more desolate than Gary Coleman's future in acting.

I confess I'm probably being a bit too Brisbane-based paraochial. But I've been to London, and Paris, and Rome, and  Madrid, and Vienna, and St Petersburg and several other classy European cities, and I've never felt the same sense of "If you're not here, you're not anywhere" that I get in Melbourne.

But anyway.

I landed at Tullamarine around half-eight after catching the 0500 Virgin Blue red-eye out of Brisbane. I caught the glamourous SkyBus into town, before wandering up Bourke Street to the mall, then around to Flinders Street Station.

They have these, like, train/bus things that drive on the roads there.
They're called trams, apparently.

It was a very pleasant morning, with blue skies, a warm sun and a slight breeze. I hung out in Federation Square, where I wasted 55 cents sending a text message to the Optus "Text Wall" or whatever they call it. I sat and waited for over 45 minutes for my message to appear in scrolling electronic letters. But - nada. So sadly, I could not tell Melbourne that...

Nat directed "A Show You Wouldn't Take Your Wife To"

...which is a pity, really, because the Wives of Melbourne really should have been warned. You know, in case they were planning a trip north of Albury-Wondonga before May 2.

I was picked up by my ex-colleague and good buddy Gail, otherwise known as G-Watt, who shifted down to Melbs last November, and was kindly letting me crash on her fold-out couch overnight. We did lunch before checking out some op shops. Then G-Watt went for a nap (like me, she's all too familiar with those 4am starts), and I grabbed a tram down Lygon Street to the fancy "shops and restaurants" area. I strolled about until it was roughly 6pm, and time to meet Deborah Frances-White and see her Comedy Festival show.

The Trades Hall in Carlton is a lovely old building, with the names of Unions like the Saddlemakers & Leatherworkers still in black lettering on marbled glass over the doors, and flyers for political meetings and literary discussions taped up over every wall. The stone staircases are so worn from millions of footsteps, there are ten centimetre deep trenches near the curve of the bannisters (I know this, because being true to my name, I tripped over one). One staircase is dominated by a giant black-and-white photo portrait of Gough Whitlam, in profile and all statesman-like.

I had an interesting read in one of the ladies' toilet cubicles. One on wall was written the phrase "It's nearly midnight, and all I want with my life is to be your housewife". I was thinking to myself how the author of said phrase should have popped out to one of the Wymmyn's Collective Meetings, when I noticed that on the facing wall was written the charming phrase "F*** my c***". So the shallow might say that toilet booth contained the full gamut of the female emotional and sexual experience. But they might not want to say it to the Wymmyn's Collective.

Deborah arrived about half-six, and it was great to see her. She practiced a part of her show with me, and cross-checked some of the local references. We were sitting in the Bella Union bar, and it slowly started to fill up around us. Other comedians drifted in and said hello to Deborah - including Lawrence Leung, who now has a big show on the ABC. He and another comedian called Andrew McClelland are doing a show called Time Ninjas at the festival - another show I couldn't see because it was on at the same time as Deborah's. I said to them if they were proper time travellers, they'd arrange for me to travel back after Deb's show so I could see theirs. They ummed and ahhed a bit. Ha! I wound up telling Lawrence Leung that in a way, he'd already time travelled, because while I waited for Deborah, I'd been listening to a three-year-old Get This podcast in which he had been the guest announcer. He seemed a little impressed, possibly a little freaked out, I'm not sure.

G-Watt and her lovely partner Jason arrived around 8pm, and not long after we filed in to the Meeting Room to see Deb's show, How Almost Anyone can Become an Overnight Celebrity. It was fantastic - Deborah is just a top-class storyteller, and the way she goes about achieving the challenge of instant celebrity-hood is just hysterical. I highly recommend it to anyone in Melbourne, or planning to visit during the festival.

We celebrated with a few drinks afterwards, and I also got to say hello to a few other Edinburgh buddies - Deb's producer Jeremy, marketing guru Sonal, and conman and witch Philip Escoffey. His show, Six Impossible Things Before Dinner, was also on at the same time as Deborah's, so I missed it. But having seen it in Edinburgh last year, I can highly recommend it. He does fantastic "magic" tricks - if you like Derren Brown, you'll get a real kick out of Philip. You'll leave thinking "How the hell did he DO that....?"

Philip, Deborah & I in the Bella Union bar. I had a Coke. But then, don't I always?

G-Watt, Jason & I got a tram home about midnight, and I slept like a baby on their fold-out. This morning I grabbed a tram into the city with Jason (G-Watt having gone to work while I was unconscious), then grabbed the Skybus back out to the airport. Melbourne had been sunny and warm, but when I arrived home around 11:20am, it was pouring rain. It seemed a bizarre reversal somehow, but very pleasant nonetheless.

And do you know - I managed to escape any April 1st tomfoolery entirely!