Decision-making

He Died with a Felafel In His Hand has now been cast.

By crumbs it was difficult - so many talented people auditioned, and I always feel terribly bad when I don't "include" people. It's like I fear them hating me for ever and ever, when in fact, it's a play, not a lifeboat off the Titanic, and actors are reasonably used to rejection.

In the end for me, it came down to gut instinct and physical appearance. Not being shallow there; but I want this play to have a good range of physical types. No point having three petite brunettes when I can have a petite brunette, a blonde bombshell and a curvy redhead (which I have; plus a curvy brunette and a olive-skinned cutie). The guys range from blokey to alternative, which is excellent.

It made me think about decision-making. I'm generally terrible at it; I'm always the last to order at a restaurant. So how do you make decisions? Do you go with guts, or write up comprehensive notes weighing the pros or cons? Do you ask people for advice, or rely totally on your own rational brain? And how different is the decision-making process between simple stuff, and IMPORTANT issues?

And a dovetail question. Felafel has its first rehearsal this coming Sunday. The cast are well-aware by now that I am reasonably insane. My tirades against "wanky actor types" and calls of "cue dildo smackdown dance number!" during the audition process has pretty much taken care of that.

But I wonder if I may be able to turn it around by adopting some sort of affectation to appear much more hip, cool and with it than I actually am. Dark sunglasses, perhaps? A skewiff tie? A large coffee, like Mark Harmon from NCIS? Herbal cigarillos? Black fingernail polish?

I Have a Flag

I co-hosted a radio show again on Saturday, and took great delight bringing up a police story about a giant 8m by 4m flag that got nicked from a flagpole outside a southside storage business that morning. I said I couldn't decide whether it was "unAustralian" or "totally Australian". After all, the modern Australia, the white Australia, was founded by a bunch of crooks of varying degrees of nastiness. Flogging a flag to celebrate that seemed somewhat appropriate.

Of course, I then remembered that listeners to the radio station I work for believe even looking at the flag inappropriately should be punished with a public lashing and a good six years of national service, preferably served on the Kokoda Track, with Sporting Shooters re-enacting the role of "The Japanese". I shut up about the flag after that.

They may not all weigh 10 kilograms and big enough to wrap a two-car garage, but geez there's a lot of flags around for Australia Day this year. They had them as giveaways on every seat at the Citizenship Ceremony I covered at City Hall this morning, and I believe various bottle shops and newspapers have been running flag promotions.

Now I'll admit to having bizarre bouts of patriotism at times. This morning's ceremony finished with a rousing version of "I Still Call Australia Home", and thanks to those damn Qantas choir kids, I can't hear that song now without a tear welling up in the peepers.

But I've never been a flag-waiver. I understand it's an important symbol of our nation, but I don't believe that it's holy, or sacred, or above all criticism. I don't believe people "died for the flag" and therefore any desceration of it is a jail-worthy offence. Surely they died in service of their country, and a flag is just a bit of material? I'd rather the flag be stripped and used as bandages than kept whole to drape over a coffin. And I don't believe flying the flag makes someone a BETTER Australian than me - in fact I believe that's often just a cheap gesture designed to make someone look patriotic without much effort.

But perhaps I'm wrong? Am I - gasp of dread, fear of all fears - unAustralian? After all, I do have a picture of Elizabeth I on my keyring. But then I am a filthy first-gen Aussie with a disturbing keen-ness for British history, after all.

Prognosis: Blood!

Tonight, there were high kicks, cartwheels, and more blood than the Red Cross sucks out of donors in a week. Most of it got on me:

At the start of each show, three characters (including my nurse, Lottie Buble) ask for an "offer" from the audience to incorporate into the show. Tonight, mine was "ninjitsu". This resulted in Nurse Lottie being a secret masked vigilante known as "The Leggy Avenger". There was much high-kicking, judo-chopping, and cartwheeling. I got to kick muchos arse, and in return had gratuitous amounts of our cocoa & glucose mix sprayed over me.

The best thing about this show has been the focus it's forced me to have. There's no chance to pop to the green room for a drink, or gasbag with fellow cast members. We all stand backstage, ready at a moment's notice to step on if needed or called, sometimes snatching a second to talk about a potential plot device, or scene that could or should happen. That complete dedication to the task at hand is fantastic; my brain feels sharper from doing this.

I must make special mention of our one-of-a-kind musician Kris; who I forgot to thank in yesterday's post (I believe the internet-appropriate term is "facepalm").  Kris is by far the most talented improv musician I've ever met, and it's a great thrill for Impro Mafia to have him onboard for this show. Kris also has a great blog called Musical Hotspot, where he shares his experiences and expertise as an improv musician.

Prognosis: Death!

Tonight saw the start of Prognosis: Death! - Impro Mafia's newest, bloodiest, and quite possibly best show yet.

This is a fully improvised play, which is quite a feat. Much of the improvised comedy that's seen on TV and on the stage consists of short scenes between one to five minutes long. Certainly "short-form" impro has been our mainstay for years.

Tonight, we made up a play that came in at around one hour - two 30-minute halves. Not only did it make sense (in its own weird and wonderful way), but it had great live music, great recorded music, a giant LolCat, Vampire Kittehs, surgery with real organs - and fake blood. Lots of fake blood!

I'm so proud of Impro Mafia and all the company's achieved in the past year. As far as I can work out, this is the FIRST time in Brisbane a fully improvised play has been staged. To be doing it well, in front of a large receptive crowd who seemed to adore our schlocky antics is fantastic.

We've still got FIVE more performances to go: we're running Friday 23 and Saturday 24, then Thursday 29, Friday 30 and Saturday 31 January. Tickets are just $15 adults, $10 concession. We've had a couple of kids around 10 years old in the audience; and the show's about a PG rating, so if your kids like silly fake operations and the odd swear word, then chances are they might also enjoy Prognosis: Death!

A big thank you to the talented and dedicated cast: Dave, Mike, Luke, Wade, Dan and Amy; our stunningly brilliant musician Kris; our fabulous and mop-handy crew Tiffany, Sarah and Mia; all at the Brisbane Arts Theatre for their support; the audience for coming and laughing; and a big special thank you to The Wah, for getting his shirt off and directing his heart out (although technically it's an ox heart).

I can't wait to see how the next five shows go - although the Sapphic Mafia that is the crew (who will also be crewing Felafel and seem quite happy with my new nickname for them) has requested more cleavage from my nurse character.

Sigh. I suffer for my art, I really do. Ziiiiiipppp.....

Smokin'. Hot. Babes.

I probably shouldn't say this, considering I'm still weighing up decisions and have a callback/second audition next week, but honestly?

Every. Single. Female*. Actor. that I saw at today's He Died With a Felafel In His Hand auditions was stunningly gorgeous. And let's not forget talented. They had that too, in spades.

I'd be jealous if I wasn't excited that I am going to have the Best. Cast. Ever.

Oh yes.

I'm bringing sexy back.

*The blokes were all great too; but it's the level of hotness amongst the women that I couldn't get over.

Hudson Hawks (possibly Geese)

It's only January, but I think we already have a winner for Photo of the Year:

This was taken by Janis Krums, who was on a ferry at the time this US Airways Airbus A-320 crashed landed New York's Hudson River. The plane had come a-cropper after a birdstrike caused both engines to fail. Using quite incredibly stupendous skill, pilot Captain Chesley Sullenberger brought Flight 1549 down in the water perfectly, allowing all 150 passengers and crew to escape onto the slightly submerged wings, and get into life rafts. Krums snapped a shot on his mobile phone, and uploaded it to his Twitter account, making it one of the first shots about the story to get on the internet. Citizen journalism, hoorah!

A story like this makes me think about parallel and multiple universes.

In another potential universe, the world might be mourning the loss of those 150 lives right now. I think today - we're in the good universe.

On a slightly less philosophical note, how about Captain Chesley Sullenberger?

I can imagine that guy's had to put up with all sorts of nicknames throughout his life. But now, forget Superman. When I have a mid-air emergency, I want SULLENBERGER on my side. He's the real Man of Steel. Perhaps we should give his name a definition:

"Sullenberger. Noun. A feat of spectacular skill and precision, resulting in the survival of persons in an otherwise deadly situation."

BAT Garage & Memorabilia Sale - on TV!

For the past couple of months, I've become heavily involved in efforts to save the Brisbane Arts Theatre.

I've performed in various shows at this historic venue for 10 years. 2008 saw it become a home to Impro Mafia, which is my other great creative passion. I love this venue so much; it's played a big part in my life. It simply cannot be allowed to fall and close. Brisbane has already lost enough of its heritage.

Thankfully, some of the work I've been putting in to promote the place has been paying off. Channel 10 even featured this fantastic story on tonight's broadcast:




I'd like to thank Channel 10 for their interest in this story, and in our theatre. We could not have asked for a better way to get the message out.

If you're interested in our Garage & Memorabilia sale, it's this Sunday 18 January. Doors open at 7am; the auction of memorabilia starts at 10am.

The theatre is located at 210 Petrie Terrace. There's street parking available; it's a five minute walk from Roma Street Station and buses stop on Petrie Terrace frequently. If you're in Brisbane - come along and score yourself a bargain!

Girl Clumsy Knows Nothing About Fashion...

...but dagnabbit if I ain't gonna judge 'em all harshly anyway.

The best-dressed at the Golden Globe awards:


Evan Rachel Wood - Marilyn Manson's ex shows exactly how to wear black. Just perfect. I wish I was thin so I could pull off a dress like this.

Drew Barrymore - Speaking of Marilyns, hello Monroe. At first I thought the hair was too big. Now I'm just in awe. Drew is mainlining glamour. She's stuffed to the gills with gorgeousness. If she were anymore feminine, her ovaries would explode.

Samantha Harris - I have no idea who this chick is. All I know is the dress, the colour, the neckline - HAWT.

January Jones - This dress is divine. And her name's January Jones. She's in Mad Men, but dammit, she should be a private investigator, luring philandering billionaire husbands into honey traps, then clamping them to the bed with a set of handcuffs before telling their satisfied wives to start divorce proceedings. Sorry, where was I?

Honourable mentions: Kate Winslet (sigh - so elegant), Cameron Diaz (just rocks anything she wears), Mary-Louise Parker (drool, drool, please let me look like this one day).

Worst-dressed at the Golden Globes:

Renee Zellweger - OMG WTF?!?! At what point do you put a flesh-coloured bra under a sheer black top? Either get the girls out, Renee, or pop 'em in something black and lacy. Then there's fish-tail skirt, and the hair... it's wrong. It's all wrong.

Angelina Jolie - Yeah, I know. I'm going there. I'm saying it. BLAND, Angelina. BLAND. You are not a bland woman. Don't give me "meh" fashion. Extra points for the Brad Pitt accessory though.

Olivia Wilde - the House actor has been put on the best-dressed lists, but not with me. I think she needs to start putting herself on a hamburger diet. She looks positively gaunt. And her dress, while not quite Gwyneth Paltrow-pink, is still fairly high-school formal frou-frou.

Jennifer Lopez - for some reason J-Lo's decided to dispense with haute couture, and just wrap some velvety gold curtains from a local strip club around her jugs.

Dishonourable mentions: Lisa Rinna (go away, trout pout & fake tan), Demi Moore (Demi! The 80s are over!), Glenn Close (no, no, no Glenn! Check out Susan Sarandon for advice on how to pick a suit), and Mickey Rourke (kill it! Somebody kill it! It's... oh wait, that is Mickey Rourke. Ouch).

And the award goes to...

...Kate Winslet, who today took home the Best Supporting Actress Golden Globe for The Reader, before backing up to add the Best Actress for Revolutionary Road to her collection. She also totally wiped the floor in the style stakes.

But here's a question. Should we really have Best Actress and Best Actor categories?

I can understand why in sport you often need separate categories for the sexes. Females are generally not as physically strong as males, therefore, the playing field is unequal.

But when it comes to strutting your stuff in front of the camera, surely there's no real difference between male and female actors?

Surely Jodie Foster's blazing performance in Silence of the Lambs was as good as Al Pacino's "Wa-hoo!"-ing in Scent of a Woman? Surely Kate Winslet is the equal of Leonardo di Caprio, if not greater? And can you honestly say Meryl Streep is not the equal of any male actor you know? They don't have gender distinctions in the Directing, Screenwriting, Costuming or any other category - why keep it for acting?

As far as I can guess, it's to allow more people to receive nominations. If you just had a "Best Performance in a Lead Role" and "Best Performance in a Supporting Role", you'd have 10 nominees, rather than the current 20. Of course, the Globes has 40 acting nominees, because they have Best Actor/Actress in a Musical/Comedy, a distinction the Academy doesn't make.

So cutting out the gender distinction would reduce the glamour pool of nominees and red carpet walkers, but damn it would make for some mighty fine competition. I'd love to see Helen Mirren going head-to-head with Phillip Seymour Hoffman. It'd be a race to see who'd get their boobs out first.

Bailouts Gone Wild

If Charles Dickens were to write a book about the current global economic situation, he'd be tempted to call it Hard Times. Except, of course, he'd be accused of plagiarising himself. Perhaps instead he could rewrite his classic opening line from A Tale of Two Cities to simply read: "It was the.... worst of times".

I bring up Dickens because hardship and toil is apparently what America's beloved pornography industry is facing, according to two heavyweights of the genre, Larry Flynt and Joe Francis. Despite the presence of the letters d, i, c and k in his surname, there's surely no other reason why I would link one of the English language's greatest storytellers to the people behind "the money shot".

(Mind you, you could argue that Dickens' popularising of the novel, via serialised installments of stories detailing 19th century trials and triumphs, could have set the groundwork for Flynt's popularising of the hard-core skin mag Hustler, and Francis' serialised installments of Girls Gone Wild. Also, I reckon Dickens was totally hot for Elizabeth Gaskell. North and South isn't just a book - it's sexual position.)

Flynt and Francis claim their $12 billion industry is not recession-proof, and consideration should be given to a bailout, akin to the type given to America's ailing car manufacturers. They reckon a hot cash injection of $5 billion is needed to ensure their continued success. In Flynt's words, they want the US Congress to "rejuvenate the sexual appetite of Americans" - in ways that nasal sprays just cannot deliver.

I for one welcome calls for increased funding to the other Silicon Valley. Personally, I'd like to see some of the lucre pumped into better quality scripts, with more plausible pool-boy related plots. And while the Rohypnol-fuelled adventures of college girls have made good fodder for Francis' Girls Gone Wild series so far, perhaps it's time he look seriously at increasing his special effects budget. You know, to get more bang for his buck.

It's now just eleven more sleeps until Barack Obama is inaugurated as President. Let's hope one of his priorities is fluffing the porn industry back to life. And let's hope he delivers the cash in the most appropriate fashion - with $5 billion worth of $20 bills stuffed down Larry Flynt and Joe Francis' underpants.

Awww, yeah.

Brains

I love a documentary on a grisly subject, and SBS recently came good with the motherload.

The Lobotomist is a one-hour profile of Walter Freeman, the American doctor who invented the infamous and incomparably nasty medical procedure known as "transorbital lobotomy". Performed on hundreds of thousands of mentally ill patients between the 1930s and 1950s, it left countless numbers of people shadows of their former selves, with reduced brain capacity and often severe disabilities.

Now The Wah has great difficulty in watching anything to do with ice-picks rattling around the pre-frontal cortex, and indeed forsook The Lobotomist for shootin' up zombies or whatever he was railing against in "Left 4 Dead".

Yes, you can appreciate the irony.

But I'm starting to think that perhaps The Wah's frankly obessive paranoia about the impending zombie-pocalypse owes some credit to the horror of lobotomy. Perhaps there are academic papers linking the two already; but a quick internet search links zombies primarily to voodoo magic.

Vampires suck your blood and leave you soulless, a werewolf's bite turns you into a hairy, flesh-eating canine - both arguably leave you without full control of your faculties. But the simple notion of the shuffling undead remains by far the more feared of all the literary/cinematic monsters. You don't see anyone going on "vampire" or "werewolf" walks through major CBDs the world over.

I'm intrigued by all of this in the context of a BBC story about a lack of healthy brains being donated to universities for vital research into Alzheimer's and autism. While many of us have resolved to donate other organs like livers, kidneys and hearts to help the sick, I wonder how many people have thought about what might happen to our grey matter once the synaptic connections stop firing for good?

Doctor Why

Shockwaves continue to shudder through the geek world after it was revealed Matt Smith will play the Eleventh Doctor in Series 5 of Doctor Who.

At 26 years old, Matt Smith becomes the youngest actor ever to take control of the TARDIS.

But do you know what other milestone this marks? Something that I've yet to see mentioned in any significant way?

He's the first "Generation Y" doctor.

After the Gen-Xers Christopher Eccleston and David Tennant, we're now set to see the adventures of a 80s child with more money than sense, a lack of appreciation for the hard times, and a beyond-sensible interest in iPhones, Robot Chicken and hair pomades.

It's lucky the Doctor travels with companions, because frankly I'm amazed he's even left home by himself. I wonder how he keeps the TARDIS passably clean without Mum around to tidy up the command centre?

Yes, I know, he's a 900-year-old alien with ten previous incarnations and life experience beating through his binary cardiovascular system. But whereas as Ten mocked Captain Jack and Martha for "blogging", can we expect the same from Eleven?

I think it's more likely he'll be interrupting his regular "saving-the-world" activities to update his Twitter status:

And don't get me started on the Doctor's Facebook...

Radio Clumsy Part Deux

Can you guess what's in the picture?

They're called "pop guards", and they're placed over microphones to reduce wind noise, or in a studio situation, to take the edge off hard "p" sounds that audibly "pop" over the airwaves.

Today was my second day co-hosting the Summer Weekends program. Again, I had a lot of fun, and even got to muck around trying to pronounce the word "Supercalifragalisticexpealidocious" at one point. The highlight for me was our interview with journalist, presenter and most recently Channel Nine weatherman Frank Warwick, about his illness while travelling in Zimbabwe last August. Extraordinary stuff - you realise just how godawful the place is, thanks to Mugabe and his thugs. Luckily, Frank Warwick says the Zimbabwean people remain kind and gentle, so hopefully there is a bright future for them.

That brings to an end my two days of co-hosting - which I've enjoyed very much. I hope to get some valuable feedback which can help me to continue to develop my radio career.

Radio Clumsy

Today was day one of my weekend of co-hosting on 4BC.

I was as chuffed to bits to be asked to fill-in - and I had fun. I hope listeners enjoyed it!

The most memorable moment was asking the following quiz question:

"How much did Paul McCartney's divorce from Heather Mills cost him: a) 25 million pounds b) 50 million pounds or c) an arm and a leg?"

My co-host John Miller's face went red and he had to go off mike to avoid spluttering on-air. I thought I'd said the wrong thing - and to tell the truth it was fairly offensive, even though I meant it as a joke. Luckily John said later that he thought it was funny, but just hadn't been expecting it.

Day two tomorrow; tune in to 1116AM between 12 and 6pm to have a listen!

Goodbye, Journalspace

Just over a year ago, I began a second blog at a site called JournalSpace. The reason was because a girl at my work blogged there, and was part of John Birmingham's online "Cheeseburger Gothic" community. It was essentially a mirror site for me, as I mostly reposted articles from this, my first and truly beloved blog site.

Joining gave me the chance to be a part of JB's excellent little circle of like-minded individuals - there were great discussions and comment threads, and JB often posted fascinating stories about the publishing world and life as a writer. There was the odd flamer and nutcase follower, but for the most part, it was everything that's good about the internet (porn aside, obviously).

But last week, the system crashed, and after sending their drives to a recovery service, it appears something irreversible's happened, and there's no data left. At all. Everything's gone.

Journalspace is no more.

It hasn't been a major hassle for me, as Blogger is my first home. However, many people lost dozens of great articles, posts and comments. Worse than that, they lost the community that had been established, and are now scrambling to piece that back together. For writers like John Birmingham, whose online presence has become a big part of his professional life, it's a double blow.

Having said that, I've spent the past hour or so tracking down some of the J-Space "refugees" - as most have gone and started up Blogger or Wordpress blogs in the wake of J-Space's fiery implosion. John himself has established a dedicated Cheeseburger Gothic site. I have no doubt the community will reassert itself, even though it will probably never be exactly the same.

If anyone reading this is an ex-Journalspacer - welcome! I hope you check back in often, and let me know where your new online home is, so I can come and visit. I'll bring a welcome basket, I promise.

It's also made me think a lot more about backing up some of my better posts from this site - please let me know if you know how best to do that!