For the past seven days, I have consumed energy drinks - a different one every day.
The result:
Blow-by-blow details soon...
Aug 28, 2009
This is the Face of Madness
For the past seven days, I have worked 0400 - 1200 shifts.
For the past seven days, I have consumed energy drinks - a different one every day.
The result:
For the past seven days, I have consumed energy drinks - a different one every day.
The result:
Aug 25, 2009
Punchline
I tell you, it's one of the crimes of the decade that I am not being paid to write jokes.
Topical news-based set up:
And here comes the punchine:
And this comic genius is happening in the wee hours of the morning, people. This is 4am comedy gold.
(I may need some sleep).
Topical news-based set up:
And here comes the punchine:
And this comic genius is happening in the wee hours of the morning, people. This is 4am comedy gold.
(I may need some sleep).
Aug 23, 2009
Forgive me, Becky Sharp
Her name really was Becky, but the "Sharp" is my own addition. I don't know what her surname was - we'd only just met, in the courtyard of the Brisbane Arts Theatre. She didn't strike me as a hard-nosed, manipulative type (like Thackeray's Becky Sharp), but she did have bright eyes and a keen sense of self-confidence; hence, the nickname.
"Are you with us?" she said excitedly, as I sat down and began examining my Ghost Hunt forms. She'd seen my lanyard with the large "C", indicating my group for the tour. "I'm Becky!" she exclaimed, then introduced the rest of her party at lightning speed - so fast I immediately forgot their names.
Within 15 minutes, we found ourselves in the theatre's workshop, where a "communication board" had been placed on an upturned black milk crate that I suspect may have served as part of a coffee table in He Died with a Felafel in His Hand.
Three of the ladies from Becky's party refused to put their fingers anywhere near the board, but Becky and one other eagerly volunteered. Not having participated in a three-way ouija before, I took my place to Becky's right, and placed my left index finger on the dial.
And we asked questions.
I thought there'd be some deep breathing or focus work before we began, but no, our enthusiastic spiritual guide simply launched in with "Is there someone there who'd like to talk to us?"
Despite persistent interrogation, the dial was quiet for a fair few minutes. I was trying like crazy to keep my hand still, removing my finger and flexing my hand to ease the tension. I knew about the ideomotor effect; but sadly, the awareness that the dial could not move of its own accord seem to pervade my muscles as well as my thoughts, and there was nothing unconscious about what happened next.
Ever so slightly, the top knuckle of my finger moved, and the dial shifted half a millimetre to the left.
"It moved!" exclaimed Becky. Our guide nodded her agreement.
We went back to asking questions. Was the spirit a man? Did he work at the theatre? Was this his workshop? Did he want us to be there? Was there someone at the table he was drawn to in particular?
....I flicked my knuckle. The dial shifted to the left.
"He likes me!" exclaimed Becky, her eyes wide.
"Does Becky remind you of someone you know?" said Becky's companion. A slight shift.
"Does Becky remind you of an actor you knew?" That was my question, accompanied by another shift.
Becky stifled a squeal. Her eyes widened and she shivered, as if scared. But her bright eyes couldn't contain the thrill at being singled out by a spirit.
I didn't really move the dial all that much. A couple of flicks. 'Cause the ghost, if he was there, wasn't really being very communicative. And Becky Sharp and her friends were so eager for something to happen. What's the harm in a teensy flick of a finger?
Or, for that matter, a teensy flick of a foot?
We finished our investigation of the workshop by examining the paint room; kept closed and locked due to 40-odd years of accumulated Dulux tins. Our paranormal overseer told the group that the paint room was often the scene of encounters with the other-worldly. She said if we knocked, someone might knock back.
Becky Sharp was unanimously chosen as The Knocker.
Her friends gathered behind her, with me further behind, my back to a wooden stage flat.
Becky knocked. Silence.
Becky knocked again. Silence.
Becky knocked a third time. Silence.
She turned to address her friends, and at that moment, I quickly flicked my right foot behind my body. It connected with the flat with a round wooden crack.
"Did you guys hear that?" Becky asked, sharply.
"That was a knock, I heard a knock," said our guide. "It came from over there!" exclaimed one of the women, pointing in the opposite direction to where I was standing. My face was a mask of furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips.
There was a shiver of excitement. "Knock again!" And Becky knocked.
And I was too shit-scared to attempt the flick-kick again.
Silence.
Murmurs, whisperings of "there was definitely a knock from somewhere over there" and "it was definitely a wooden sound". Then I fell into line as we filed out of the workshop, and back upstairs. We still had two more "sites" to visit. But I was done with my mischief-making for the night. Anything else that may have happend to those people had no interference from me.
Now, dear readers, you may think ill of me. But I stress - I did not want to trick Becky Sharp. She was just 18 and so genuinely interested and excited. I wanted her to have the scary, thrilling experience she so obviously wanted.
The finger move may have been done with some interest into whether such an action would be noticed and dismissed; but the foot kick was spur of the moment. There was just such a silence after Becky's knock - and I'm an actor. It may have been the workshop, but it was still part of the theatre.
And the audience deserves a good show.
"Are you with us?" she said excitedly, as I sat down and began examining my Ghost Hunt forms. She'd seen my lanyard with the large "C", indicating my group for the tour. "I'm Becky!" she exclaimed, then introduced the rest of her party at lightning speed - so fast I immediately forgot their names.
Within 15 minutes, we found ourselves in the theatre's workshop, where a "communication board" had been placed on an upturned black milk crate that I suspect may have served as part of a coffee table in He Died with a Felafel in His Hand.
Three of the ladies from Becky's party refused to put their fingers anywhere near the board, but Becky and one other eagerly volunteered. Not having participated in a three-way ouija before, I took my place to Becky's right, and placed my left index finger on the dial.
And we asked questions.
I thought there'd be some deep breathing or focus work before we began, but no, our enthusiastic spiritual guide simply launched in with "Is there someone there who'd like to talk to us?"
Despite persistent interrogation, the dial was quiet for a fair few minutes. I was trying like crazy to keep my hand still, removing my finger and flexing my hand to ease the tension. I knew about the ideomotor effect; but sadly, the awareness that the dial could not move of its own accord seem to pervade my muscles as well as my thoughts, and there was nothing unconscious about what happened next.
Ever so slightly, the top knuckle of my finger moved, and the dial shifted half a millimetre to the left.
"It moved!" exclaimed Becky. Our guide nodded her agreement.
We went back to asking questions. Was the spirit a man? Did he work at the theatre? Was this his workshop? Did he want us to be there? Was there someone at the table he was drawn to in particular?
....I flicked my knuckle. The dial shifted to the left.
"He likes me!" exclaimed Becky, her eyes wide.
"Does Becky remind you of someone you know?" said Becky's companion. A slight shift.
"Does Becky remind you of an actor you knew?" That was my question, accompanied by another shift.
Becky stifled a squeal. Her eyes widened and she shivered, as if scared. But her bright eyes couldn't contain the thrill at being singled out by a spirit.
I didn't really move the dial all that much. A couple of flicks. 'Cause the ghost, if he was there, wasn't really being very communicative. And Becky Sharp and her friends were so eager for something to happen. What's the harm in a teensy flick of a finger?
Or, for that matter, a teensy flick of a foot?
We finished our investigation of the workshop by examining the paint room; kept closed and locked due to 40-odd years of accumulated Dulux tins. Our paranormal overseer told the group that the paint room was often the scene of encounters with the other-worldly. She said if we knocked, someone might knock back.
Becky Sharp was unanimously chosen as The Knocker.
Her friends gathered behind her, with me further behind, my back to a wooden stage flat.
Becky knocked. Silence.
Becky knocked again. Silence.
Becky knocked a third time. Silence.
She turned to address her friends, and at that moment, I quickly flicked my right foot behind my body. It connected with the flat with a round wooden crack.
"Did you guys hear that?" Becky asked, sharply.
"That was a knock, I heard a knock," said our guide. "It came from over there!" exclaimed one of the women, pointing in the opposite direction to where I was standing. My face was a mask of furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips.
There was a shiver of excitement. "Knock again!" And Becky knocked.
And I was too shit-scared to attempt the flick-kick again.
Silence.
Murmurs, whisperings of "there was definitely a knock from somewhere over there" and "it was definitely a wooden sound". Then I fell into line as we filed out of the workshop, and back upstairs. We still had two more "sites" to visit. But I was done with my mischief-making for the night. Anything else that may have happend to those people had no interference from me.
Now, dear readers, you may think ill of me. But I stress - I did not want to trick Becky Sharp. She was just 18 and so genuinely interested and excited. I wanted her to have the scary, thrilling experience she so obviously wanted.
The finger move may have been done with some interest into whether such an action would be noticed and dismissed; but the foot kick was spur of the moment. There was just such a silence after Becky's knock - and I'm an actor. It may have been the workshop, but it was still part of the theatre.
And the audience deserves a good show.
Aug 18, 2009
I Blame the Liberal Media
My friends - I come before you shocked, outraged and more than a little bitter.
I discovered today that I have NOT - I repeat, NOT - been nominated in the 2009 Queensland Media Awards.
It's stunning news. Incredible, unbelievable and a number of other adjectives that you can look up in a thesaurus.
I feel hurt and betrayed that I have been denied a chance to be recognised for my dedication to journalism. And to get my hands on the... eh... ahem *cough*... cash prize.
But it was the JOURNALISM that was important ($500, man. That's some sweet coin).
I entered a story I did late last year about two Brisbane people who'd been the victim of Nigerian Love Scammers. It was interesting because it was the first time victims had been willing to put their hands up and admit they got conned. Most people let the police do the talking.
It wasn't a HARD news story, but it was still a news story, with a charming and relevant human interest angle. But oh no. That doesn't seem to be good enough for the judges of the Best Radio News Report category.
You'll see that instead, they've plumped for an SBS report on the findings of the Malu-Sara coronial inquiry, a five-journo coverage of last November's mighty storms, and - most outrageously - a live cross from some bloke at ABC 702 in SYDNEY about some sort of "crash".
Let me say that again, people. SOME BLOKE IN SYDNEY.
Now I could choose to crumple up in a sobbing heap that obviously the judges think SOME BLOKE IN SYDNEY is better than my local, actually-Brisbane-based contribution.
But instead, I'm going to get angry. Righteously angry.
Because even if I was the most shit-hot reporter since Tintin, I STILL would not get nominated for these awards. And you know why? Because I don't work at the ABC or SBS.
That's right - I'M BLAMING THE LIBERAL MEDIA.
Now this is distressing to me. I don't like the thought that after eight years in commercial radio - five in conservative talkback - that I have lost the edgy, left-of-centre thinking that's frustrated my Dad for all these years ("Go march with your Labor Day mates, you Commie!").
But you know what? I do a bloody good job with far fewer resources than the latte-sipping crowd over at Aunty.
That storm story? The one that they had FIVE journos nominated for? Guess who covered that for my station?
THIS little black duck, that's who. After reading the news the Sunday afternoon the storm hit, I was out at The Gap surveying the worst of the damage by 8:30 Monday morning. Then I was back at 6am Tuesday for the Prime Minister's visit. Wednesday it was out to see damage to a water reservoir at Enoggera. My equipment? A recorder and a mobile phone. AND MY OWN CAR. Oh yeah, and I also took my camera to send some photos to our sister publication.
Wish I'd bloody submitted some reports of that now. Why didn't I? I wasn't about in the newsroom to save them, due to being OUT ON THE ROAD.
The big guns at the top of the commercial radio tree may get paid more than God, and have producers and lackeys coming out the wazoo, but you would be mistaken in thinking that kind of cash trickles down to newsrooms. Commercial radio is a profit-driven business, and news doesn't make money. We have far fewer staff and resources than the ABC. Remember my post about state election night? The ABC had more journos there than Rupert Murdoch's had plans to take over the world.
Now I'm not KNOCKING that - it's important the nation is serviced by a properly financed and resourced broadcast outlet, and the journos there do a fine job. But these awards do seem set up in a way that doesn't allow the smaller newsrooms to compete.
Case in point - the other radio category, "Best Radio Feature". It's unavailable to me because our station does not have any programs that do radio news features - like The World Today or PM on the ABC.
I pay my dues to the Media, Entertainment and Arts Alliance like a good worker monkey. I rarely complain that they've been about as efficient at getting me a wage increase as Queensland Motorways has been with its new tolling system, but this time... it's personal.
I'd like to demand a new category implemented for the 2010 Awards:
"Best Radio Report by a Journo Who Doesn't Have a Specific Round and Therefore Covers Everything to Some Degree In Order to Provide the Best Coverage Possible in a Lightly-Staffed Newsroom Yet Still Manages to Get Most Stuff Out On Time, Factually Correct and Reasonably Pleasant to Listen To."
I'll be waiting with my entry.
I discovered today that I have NOT - I repeat, NOT - been nominated in the 2009 Queensland Media Awards.
It's stunning news. Incredible, unbelievable and a number of other adjectives that you can look up in a thesaurus.
I feel hurt and betrayed that I have been denied a chance to be recognised for my dedication to journalism. And to get my hands on the... eh... ahem *cough*... cash prize.
But it was the JOURNALISM that was important ($500, man. That's some sweet coin).
I entered a story I did late last year about two Brisbane people who'd been the victim of Nigerian Love Scammers. It was interesting because it was the first time victims had been willing to put their hands up and admit they got conned. Most people let the police do the talking.
It wasn't a HARD news story, but it was still a news story, with a charming and relevant human interest angle. But oh no. That doesn't seem to be good enough for the judges of the Best Radio News Report category.
You'll see that instead, they've plumped for an SBS report on the findings of the Malu-Sara coronial inquiry, a five-journo coverage of last November's mighty storms, and - most outrageously - a live cross from some bloke at ABC 702 in SYDNEY about some sort of "crash".
Let me say that again, people. SOME BLOKE IN SYDNEY.
Now I could choose to crumple up in a sobbing heap that obviously the judges think SOME BLOKE IN SYDNEY is better than my local, actually-Brisbane-based contribution.
But instead, I'm going to get angry. Righteously angry.
Because even if I was the most shit-hot reporter since Tintin, I STILL would not get nominated for these awards. And you know why? Because I don't work at the ABC or SBS.
That's right - I'M BLAMING THE LIBERAL MEDIA.
Now this is distressing to me. I don't like the thought that after eight years in commercial radio - five in conservative talkback - that I have lost the edgy, left-of-centre thinking that's frustrated my Dad for all these years ("Go march with your Labor Day mates, you Commie!").
But you know what? I do a bloody good job with far fewer resources than the latte-sipping crowd over at Aunty.
That storm story? The one that they had FIVE journos nominated for? Guess who covered that for my station?
THIS little black duck, that's who. After reading the news the Sunday afternoon the storm hit, I was out at The Gap surveying the worst of the damage by 8:30 Monday morning. Then I was back at 6am Tuesday for the Prime Minister's visit. Wednesday it was out to see damage to a water reservoir at Enoggera. My equipment? A recorder and a mobile phone. AND MY OWN CAR. Oh yeah, and I also took my camera to send some photos to our sister publication.
Wish I'd bloody submitted some reports of that now. Why didn't I? I wasn't about in the newsroom to save them, due to being OUT ON THE ROAD.
The big guns at the top of the commercial radio tree may get paid more than God, and have producers and lackeys coming out the wazoo, but you would be mistaken in thinking that kind of cash trickles down to newsrooms. Commercial radio is a profit-driven business, and news doesn't make money. We have far fewer staff and resources than the ABC. Remember my post about state election night? The ABC had more journos there than Rupert Murdoch's had plans to take over the world.
Now I'm not KNOCKING that - it's important the nation is serviced by a properly financed and resourced broadcast outlet, and the journos there do a fine job. But these awards do seem set up in a way that doesn't allow the smaller newsrooms to compete.
Case in point - the other radio category, "Best Radio Feature". It's unavailable to me because our station does not have any programs that do radio news features - like The World Today or PM on the ABC.
I pay my dues to the Media, Entertainment and Arts Alliance like a good worker monkey. I rarely complain that they've been about as efficient at getting me a wage increase as Queensland Motorways has been with its new tolling system, but this time... it's personal.
I'd like to demand a new category implemented for the 2010 Awards:
"Best Radio Report by a Journo Who Doesn't Have a Specific Round and Therefore Covers Everything to Some Degree In Order to Provide the Best Coverage Possible in a Lightly-Staffed Newsroom Yet Still Manages to Get Most Stuff Out On Time, Factually Correct and Reasonably Pleasant to Listen To."
I'll be waiting with my entry.
Aug 15, 2009
Twealousy
I was complaining to a friend of mine recently that due to falling visitor stats and fewer comments, I had reached the miserable conclusion that nobody reads my blog anymore.* My friend - who's quite the mad keen "tweeter" (not to mention digital radio enthusiast) - said "Ah, well! It's all about micro-blogging these days - it's all about Twitter!"
Now I've been on Twitter since November 2008. Like most regular users, I adore many aspects of it: I find the brevity of messages fun and challenging; I really dig the news gathering/distribution potential; and it's always enjoyable interacting with people.
But do you know what? I actually think it may be bad for me.
Recently, I've noticed I've been comparing my "tweets" to everybody else's. For someone whose sense of self-esteem resembles a badly-whisked souffle (capable of rising but prone to sudden and catastrophic collapse) - this has me a tad worried.
See, I've always been slightly obsessed with "popularity" and "coolness". I have never really been either of those things, despite my best efforts (hello, designated driver). It's one of those paradoxes of life - the more I CARE about being "popular" or "cool" - the more resolutely I fail at it.
Of course, on Twitter, everybody seems cooler than me.
They're listening to the latest music I have no idea about, they're going to high-falutin' restaurants and galleries, trendy nightspots and uber-urban-chic stores, they're getting about with their WiFis and their iPhones and their on-the-move Twit-Piccing, they know the cool websites and memes long before I've even figured out what a RickRoll actually is.
They're the Twitterati, and they seem to be more interesting, exciting and awesome than me in every way.
It's "Twealousy", sure. "Twenvy", if you will. Even, on some days, full-blown "Twanxiety".
Problem is, stressing about it is POINTLESS. I can't COPY these people, I can't even imitate them. I can't make people like me, or think I'm cool. I'm not Ashton Kutcher; I can't demand people follow me so I can feel popular. That way lies madness (all right, more madness).
I'd take a break from Twitter, but as I said earlier, there are facets of it I really enjoy, and it's a handy tool for work and promotion, if nothing else. So what to do, internet? What to do?
*If you are, in fact, reading this blog - thank you!
Now I've been on Twitter since November 2008. Like most regular users, I adore many aspects of it: I find the brevity of messages fun and challenging; I really dig the news gathering/distribution potential; and it's always enjoyable interacting with people.
But do you know what? I actually think it may be bad for me.
Recently, I've noticed I've been comparing my "tweets" to everybody else's. For someone whose sense of self-esteem resembles a badly-whisked souffle (capable of rising but prone to sudden and catastrophic collapse) - this has me a tad worried.
See, I've always been slightly obsessed with "popularity" and "coolness". I have never really been either of those things, despite my best efforts (hello, designated driver). It's one of those paradoxes of life - the more I CARE about being "popular" or "cool" - the more resolutely I fail at it.
Of course, on Twitter, everybody seems cooler than me.
They're listening to the latest music I have no idea about, they're going to high-falutin' restaurants and galleries, trendy nightspots and uber-urban-chic stores, they're getting about with their WiFis and their iPhones and their on-the-move Twit-Piccing, they know the cool websites and memes long before I've even figured out what a RickRoll actually is.
They're the Twitterati, and they seem to be more interesting, exciting and awesome than me in every way.
It's "Twealousy", sure. "Twenvy", if you will. Even, on some days, full-blown "Twanxiety".
Problem is, stressing about it is POINTLESS. I can't COPY these people, I can't even imitate them. I can't make people like me, or think I'm cool. I'm not Ashton Kutcher; I can't demand people follow me so I can feel popular. That way lies madness (all right, more madness).
I'd take a break from Twitter, but as I said earlier, there are facets of it I really enjoy, and it's a handy tool for work and promotion, if nothing else. So what to do, internet? What to do?
*If you are, in fact, reading this blog - thank you!
Aug 11, 2009
On A Boat
I encountered a fair number of boats during my adventures in Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand.
I present them to you now in what I believe is the only appropriate form: dorky-comedy-parody-tribute video (note: this song involves swear words!).
(With many apologies to the Lonely Island guys.)
I present them to you now in what I believe is the only appropriate form: dorky-comedy-parody-tribute video (note: this song involves swear words!).
(With many apologies to the Lonely Island guys.)
Aug 4, 2009
And for my next trick...
Like Macarthur to the Phillipines, I have returned.
Which is a miracle in itself, when you think about it, considering some of the interesting traffic challenges I've faced in recent weeks:
I think I may have bored some of you with my holiday talk. This wasn't meant to be the case; I really wanted to document some of the places we visited and hopefully be entertaining and informing. I'm actually really proud of my piece on Tuol Sleng and the Killing Fields - and am wondering if it might be worthy of a bit of extra tooling with in order to make it suitable for print. If I can find a magazine that's interested, of course.
As always, I'm happy if people would like to leave feedback on how I write and the subjects I write about, to make suggestions about style or content. The Clumsy-verse is not fixed in time and space.
Which is a miracle in itself, when you think about it, considering some of the interesting traffic challenges I've faced in recent weeks:
I think I may have bored some of you with my holiday talk. This wasn't meant to be the case; I really wanted to document some of the places we visited and hopefully be entertaining and informing. I'm actually really proud of my piece on Tuol Sleng and the Killing Fields - and am wondering if it might be worthy of a bit of extra tooling with in order to make it suitable for print. If I can find a magazine that's interested, of course.
As always, I'm happy if people would like to leave feedback on how I write and the subjects I write about, to make suggestions about style or content. The Clumsy-verse is not fixed in time and space.
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