#TelstraWP7: Figaro Overture

I could really use a "More Sleep" app

Won a HTC Mozart Windows7 phone from Telstra. Have to review the handset, operating system and NextG network for two weeks. This is my first smartphone. Don't really know what I'm doing. Other social reviewers are uber texperts; you should read their blogs. Go to Twitter and search for "#telstraWP7", or check out the Telstra Exchange official blog forum thingie.

I have called new phone "Figaro", as I'm attempting to "figure it out". Don't laugh at my bad puns. I am very, very tired.

Early thoughts from an overwrought brain:

• Ooh, big block tiles are simple, and respond to fat finger jabs.
• I can change colours! Now pink, now teal! 
• Having Gmail on my phone is So. Awesome.
• HOW DO I ADD A CONTACT? GAH! Oh there's a plus button in the "people hub". That sounds like a country song. "Oh, oh, oh, she hit the plus sign in my people hub; and now she's gone awwaaaayyy".
• Had the network weirdly just drop out at the Tempo Bar. Can't be reception, surely, it's the middle of the Valley. HIPSTERS WOULD NEED THE NETWORK. Try messing with settings. Nothing works. Someone suggests turning it off and turning it back on. BINGO. 20-plus years of mobile phone technology and the best trouble-shooting is still TURN IT OFF/TURN IT ON.
• My fingers skim over the screen. Skim! Like rocks on a still pond! Oh, Amy Pond. I should get Doctor Who wallpaper. How do I download Doctor Who wallpaper?!?!?
• Internet Explorer doesn't seem too bad. HAVE I COLLAPSED INTO A BLACK HOLE WHO WOULD SAY THAT. I can make the screen BIGGER OR SMALLER. I am like the magic potion Alice in Wonderland drinks. Hey, look, a bunny.
• Oh God I'll never be able to write as cleverly as the other reviewers. They know what words like "processors" and "lag" and "RTFM" mean. 
• Facebook integrates with Windows Live, even though I don't really know what Windows Live is. But why no Twitter integration? Are you that pissed off at Biz Stone, Microsoft? CAN'T YOU JUST GET ALONG I HAVE PICTURES TO TWEET NOW.
• Actually forget that. I think I would get too confused. At least Twitter is in one place. The app thingy for it seems a tad on the slow side. But still, for new smartphone girl, it's like WOOHOOOOO TWITTER ON PHONE.
• I am buying "apps". I have no idea what they do. One is a password vault. This is excellent news, as I keep forgetting my passwords. But it wants me to enter a "master password". Am scared. What if I forget it?
• High score on Flight Control - one! "Surely you can't be serious" etc.
• Tried using "Rapid Recorder" app to tape a media conference. It turned off when phone went to sleep. Tried to disable sleep mode completely, but the longest option I could find was five minutes. Now I have two files of Andrew Fraser talking AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO ACCESS THEM I AM A MORON.
• Camera is kind of cool but I can't make it work in the dark. Seems a bit problematic, but I suspect it could be my fault. Why didn't I listen to my father and apply myself more to learning?
• Just tried USB cabling Figaro to my new laptop. It seems to be charging, but neither device seems to be recognising the other.  But then I did buy an Apple laptop, and now have a Windows phone. OH THE IRONY TASTE IT IT'S LIKE IRON AND EPIC FAIL.
• I'm supposed to try out music, I guess. But then Figaro has a Zune. And I have an Apple now. And I don't even know how to use iTunes. I have no music on my new laptop, nor my phone. Can anybody dust off a cassette player for me please? That's really all I deserve. And a Rick Astley cassingle if you have one. 
• Author John Birmingham says I am dead to him for getting non-Apple phone product. Tried to point out I didn't pay for it. Doesn't seem to count. My friend Dan pointed out JB got a Kindle before getting an iPad and this is A. GOOD. POINT. BIRMINGHAM.
• Say what you want, it's a dead sexy phone to hold and use. Dead sexy. I feel at least 13% sexier with Figaro.
• Heh - if I think the phone is too flashy, I can use the quote TOO MANY NOTES, MR MOZART in my review and everyone will think I'm a genius.
• Oh God other reviewers might read this. I'm so, so sorry.

"Fists of Fury" Issue 2

Last week's Fists of Fury featured yours truly as a villainous, lecherous, French (maybe) jewel thief.

Catch up with our phenomenally good comic animation recap:

Again, thanks go to The Wah (directing/voiceover); Anthony (photography); Kris (photos, music & editing) and Dan (for gruelling graphic design!)

You can see Issue 3 this Sunday 28 November at the Brisbane Arts Theatre. Starts 7:30pm. Tickets just $10 at the door!

Standing Up and Being Foolish

Regular readers of this site may recall that time I tried to do 30 new things before I turned 30. I know, I know, I've tried to block it out of my mind too.

You may remember one of those things was stand-up comedy. You may recall I briefly became a universal figure of hate for decrying the standard of some open mic comedians.

You may assume that any sane person who completed such a challenge relatively unscathed would be happy enough to move on with their life, safe in the knowledge they would never have to confront a microphone, blue material and potential heckling ever again.

Such an assumption about me would bestow a great deal more sanity than I evidently possess:

Thanks to Aurelie for the picture; and Dan for the design.

Since going to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe in 2008, I've harboured a secret desire to do a one-woman show - in the vein of my dear friend and mentor Deborah Frances White. But I've kept talking myself out of it - I'm not funny enough, I don't have enough good ideas, I don't have any experience.

So you can imagine it was as much a surprise to me as anyone when I found myself filling out an application form for the BITS Festival - a "sampler" festival; a non-curated event that lets creative types perform whatever they like - whether it's a finished piece, or still in a workshop stage.

When they asked for a running time on my submission, I thought of Deborah's show, and the other shows I'd seen at the festival. They were all around one hour long. That seemed a bit much, so I plumped for something I figured might be more realistic: 45 minutes.

I've subsequently found out the average performance time at BITS is 15/20 minutes.

So, to summarise:

• This Saturday, at 3:15pm, I'm performing at the Fringe Bar.
• All I've come up with is the name, and the idea that it's about how my Grandma is cooler than me.
• I have no material.
• I'm on for 45 minutes.
• My sanity is obviously serious in question.

I've made a few sly mentions of this on Facebook and Twitter, and the overall reaction has been... well, nonexistent. It's like tumbleweeds central in the social networking sphere. I suspect that people who do realise are embarrassed on my behalf and giving me the opportunity to gracefully pretend it's not happening.

But it is happening. And screw it, why not. I don't expect anyone to come; frankly it would make life much easier if I wind up spending the time talking to myself over a pink lemonade. But I may as well give it a go. Because if my Grandma can damn well survive a Luftwaffe direct hit during the Blitz and live to join His Majesty's Royal Navy, I can damn well talk shit about it for three-quarters of an hour.

Anyway, I've discovered where I'll be performing is regularly used for cabaret burlesque performances. So, worst comes to worst, maybe I can get a head start on a new list of challenges - with "public nudity" top of the list.

Remember November: Reebok Pumps

My brother and I got into basketball for a short time. I think it 1991, possible around August, when our family began a two-month overseas travel-a-thon. It was great. We did assignments as we travelled through the US, UK, Ireland, Germany and Poland, and I missed a fair whack of Mr Topping's Year Six class.

For some reason the NBA seemed to undergo a surge of popularity back then, possibly due to the emergence of the Australian basketball competition, the NBL. All of a sudden, my brother and I were collecting cards featuring people called "Michael Jordan", "Charles Barkeley" and "Shaquille O'Neal".

I was not particularly competent at basketball. But it was never really about playing basketball. Come to think of it, it wasn't even about watching basketball. It was more about the footwear. Specifically, Reebok Pumps:

Big chunky high-top sneakers with a built-in inflation device, Reebok Pumps were the first shoes to feature an in-built inflation device. The tongue contained a big round orange squeezy button - reminiscent, coincidentally, of a basketball - that you would press to inflate something in the base of the shoe, giving you ....well, air. I guess. It was like strapping a blood pressure tester around each foot - you got a not-unpleasant feeling of firmness, enough to go shoot a three-pointer or something.

I picked up my pair of much sought-after Reebok Pumps in Los Angeles, on the aforementioned trip. My brother wound up forsaking the Reebok Pumps for the equally gimmicky LA Lights, the sneaker with LED lights IN THE HEEL. There's nothing like a couple of privileged white kids getting 'round Disneyland in sub-culturally misappropriated sportswear.

Reebok Pumps reached their pinnacle the next year, when they featured in Mel Brooks' parody Robin Hood: Men in Tights.* Then they faded from popularity. I can't remember how long my Pumps lasted, but it wouldn't have been more than a year. That fancy inflation device had a habit, like many gimmicks, of breaking a bit too easily.

*Yeah, it was Dave Chappelle! Who knew? I must go back and watch that film again.

Remember November: Schoolies

Last Friday I attended a media conference about a joint AFP/Customs operation targeting drugs being sent through the post. All sorts of creative smuggling efforts had been valiantly attempted - as my little montage demonstrates.

Officials believed most had been destined for Schoolies, the annual end-of-school booze fest that's now taken over the Gold Coast for what will no doubt be another week featuring unsmiling police officers, preening youths and tipsy girls who can't go two words without inserting "like" as an all-purpose descriptor.

I finished high school back in 1997. Our end-of-year song was The Sunscreen Song, which indicates how all-pervasive that goddamned Baz Luhrmann Romeo and Juliet film had been. Although Good Riddance (Time of Your Life) by Green Day was also doing the rounds, which is a little bit more credible.

My parents had always hated the idea of me going to Schoolies Week, but they didn't really have to "ban" me, as I'd never been very interested myself. Remember, this is Natalie the non-drinker, and I was as boring and square in high school as I am today. Seven days in a pit of alcohol, hormones and carelessness never really appealed.

I'd had vague plans of going on a cruise with some friends. Those friends eventually said they weren't interested, and it was only a few days before the end of school that I discovered they'd gone and organised their own trip to the Whitsundays and not invited me. Just last year one of those same "friends" defriended me from Facebook for no discernable reason that I could gather. Hell, maybe I am still the same awful person to be around they took me for in high school.

Anyway, it was no massive hassle. Turns out I had something to do during Schoolies Week after all - learning how to work a check-out. Yep, my first job, at Coles. In between I was more than happy to veg out in the air-conditioned TV room at our house with icy poles and a bagful of Red Dwarf and Doug Anthony All Stars tapes.

"You can't NOT go to Schoolies, at least for a bit," said a nice classmate named Bec, when I told her of my Schoolies plans instead of studying for my final maths exam.

"Well, I haven't got anything arranged, and I'm not a drinker, and I don't have any money, so it's OK," I replied.

Bec refused to take no for an answer. Turns out her mother lived at Maroochydore, so she hadn't arranged anything special either - she was just going to spend the week at her Mum's, and cruise around the various units/holiday homes that fellow classmates had rented (most kids at my school went up to the Sunshine Coast rather than down to Surfers Paradise).  She invited me to come up on the first Saturday, stay a couple of nights, then head back Monday morning in time for work on Tuesday.

Some careful pleading with my parents was required to get the A-OK for this plan. I don't think my parents lacked trust in me - despite all their efforts I'd refused to touch alcohol, and I was hardly staring down the barrel of dozens of slobbering would-be suitors looking to steal my innocence without thought for my reputation or aversion to catching genital warts. I think their main concern was driving. I'd only got my licence a month before school ended, and I think they feared drunken teenage hooligans in Ford Escorts more than anything else. So once I agreed to the condition that Dad would drive me there and pick me up on Monday, they said yes.

As it turns out, a licenced, non-drinking person is an absolute boon for your average Schoolie to have around. I spent a fair amount of time that weekend driving - not just Bec's Mazda 121, but various other vehicles owned by over-the-limit partygoers. Which was fine, really, I was happy to be useful. We zipped from Caloundra to Mooloolaba to Noosa dropping in on people, then made our way back to Bec's Mum's large house with lovely clean bathrooms each morning for rest.

My clearest memory of Schoolies is sitting on worn pea-green carpet in the living room of this ramshackle beach house owned by the parents of one male classmate, a charming chap named Matthew whom I'd always had a slight crush on. Another girl, Bec (different Bec), was next to me, and a Ford Escort driving cross-eyed lad named Cameron was in an EasyBoy recliner behind us.

(To divert for a moment: Cameron was not a bright lad. This hit home for me during the after-party for our school formal, held at our house. My parents had hired two police officers to keep out potential gatecrashers. I was clear to everyone that they weren't going to arrest them for drinking, but Cameron was a bit paranoid. He came up to me and asked that I accompany him to where he'd "hidden" his carton of beers, just in case the cops busted him. Sure, I said. I was rather confused by Cameron's "hiding" spot - it was in the dead centre of our backyard. A carton, just sitting there. Not even behind a tree.)

Bill Clinton was on the TV at the time, doing an address from the White House direct to Saddam Hussein, urging him to stop being a naughty boy for some reason or another. Another boy, Ibby, kept repeating "There's going to be a war. I just know there's going to be a war." The general feeling was one of 2am foreboding.

Except for Cameron. He was busy using his feet to massage Bec's shoulders, a "favour" she was not all that keen on receiving. So Cameron drew his feet away, paused, then declared to the room: "I think I've got a semi!"

Stay classy, school leavers.

"Fists of Fury" Issue 1

ImproMafia's latest season is called Fists of Fury, and it's an action-adventure based on detective pulp noir and 1930s/1940s superheroes/mystery men.

Our first show was last Sunday 14 November, and it was a corker. Watch this video, and you'll understand why!

While no doubt the cast did a sterling job in the show, the above piece of digital genius is the work of several incredibly talented people, who deserve a fair amount of fanning with palm leaves and general adulation:

• The Wah - show creator and director; who wrote and voiced the episode synopsis
• Al Caeiro - responsible for the fantastic show photography
• Dan Beeston - responsible for "comic book-ifying" the photos, adding effects and speech bubbles, and the comic layout
• Kris Anderson - who composed the music and did the final motion editing

Please feel free to share this video around - we're hoping it will attract people to come and see the show, which runs for the next three Sundays (21 Nov, 28 Nov, 5 Dec). Best of all, it's only $10! I would love to see you there.

#30before30: Thank Yous

The #30Before30 challenge may be over, but it's important to me to thank the many individuals, groups and companies that helped me out. I didn't get paid for any of my articles, but the generosity of others helped reduce the cost of my outlays for the project.

For starters, I'd like to thank those who donated money to my appeal - the funds (about $100) will be split between the Australian Red Cross and the Brisbane Arts Theatre.

To be perfectly honest, my fundraising attempt was probably ill-advised. I really shouldn't have tried to incorporate that element; I should've known that people rarely pay for content on the internet even when they're proper writers and what not. I also understand times are still tough for many people, plus we're in the countdown to Christmas. So the fact I raised anything at all is pretty miraculous, so thank you very much to those people who were happy to support my charities of choice.

(If you would still like to donate, please do! I will leave the donation button on this page up for a while longer.)

Obviously Brisbane Times should be thanked for publishing the articles in the first place. Read them, they have news and things. And thanks to Aurelie, who took the lovely headshots of me they used on the site.

Thanks to Rachel at Bollyfunk Dance for organising the flashmob that I took part in, that basically kicked off the entire series. I've yet to locate the video of that event, but will post when I do.

Thanks to my Hong Kong relatives for having me over there in early September, and particularly to my Uncle Jan for taking me out trapeze sailing on his superfast boat. Thanks to Kris Anderson for his suggestion of doing street photography while I was there, and to Amanda for putting me onto the cheap dumplings of the Michelin-starred restaurant.

DiscoStu also helped out by reviewing the Pirates porno with me - Stu is a very talented writer, so please annoy him on Twitter and demand he put more stuff on the internet please.

Dan was the guy who just would Not. Shut. Up. about tea-drinking until I finally popped over for a cuppa - he's started a blog full of whimsy (a blimsy?) and don't forget the Smart Enough To Know Better podcast he does with a mysterious fellow known only as The Wah.

The lady who suggested going without a bra for a day was very embarrassed by it, so I won't name her. But she still needs to teach me how to place a bet, if that gives you any clues.

A big thank you to Story Bridge Adventure Climb, who kindly let me scale Brisbane's grand old dame. I really do recommend doing this; it's informative and great fun.

The ladies at Girlfriend Fun and Fitness were just sensational during my pole-dancing lesson - I'm still in awe of my teacher Michelle, and can't wait to get back there to try again, bruises and all.

If you're looking to go a bit Easy Rider, look no further than Morgan and Wacker for all your Harley Davidson needs. Thanks to Phil for organising my ride on a sweet Fat Boy.

I have been informed that the room I made my ill-fated stand-up comedy debut has now been closed as an open-mic room. I'm not quite sure if I'm responsible for that, but hey, happy either way. Thanks to Sandra at Freestyle Comedy Factory and Steven at the Uber Open-Mic night for hosting my rambling style of "comedy" on subsequent occasions. And once again, thanks to all of you who joined in what must be a frontrunner for Greatest Online Troll War of 2010. Your support and acerbic insults still make me smile. AND ISN'T THAT WHAT COMEDY'S ALL ABOUT?

Thanks to those who voted in my online classic album and classic novel polls. I will get onto all the ones that missed out. Eventually.

The Rat-Cunning Crew deserve a big tip o' the dealer's cap for helping me in my quest to conquer the Texas Hold 'Em tables at the Treasury Casino. Chris, James, Pete, Jess, Troy, Richard - may all your pots be monsters.

The lovely, incredibly talented Miranda at the Independent Music Academy taught me how to play Zombie on the guitar, then helped me write my own tune. Thanks to director Seamus too for lending me the guitar. I really must return it...

Oh! The Ragged Band Morris Dancers! These guys were possibly the biggest bunch of awesome folk I met through the whole project. They embraced me warmly and even arranged a special dance practice in the rain in the City Botanic Gardens so I could don the bells and tatter coat and stick dance away.

Thanks (I think) to John Birmingham for luring me over to the Dark Side and a Mac with a trip to the Apple Store. I've been slowly learning about and enjoying the computer, but I still haven't got my "Steve Jobs Is My Master" badge yet. Do you think that's still in the mail, JB?

Big revhead woots to brother Simon and his mate Ryan from City Subaru who hooked me up with a speedy - yet legal! Legal! - drive in a WRX.

The "Stop Being So Darn Clever" award goes to teenagers Rose and Gabby, who helped me learn some cello, and the rest of their musically-gifted friends and relatives.

It's unlikely she'll read this, but thank you to Marilyn Monroe - aka Diana. I passed her in the city just yesterday, wearing one of the bargain dresses she'd showed me when I chatted to her on my birthday.

A massive thank you to my wonderful parents who organised my birthday glider flight through Come Gliding. I do so very much want to be a Magificent Man in a Flying Machine once more!

And finally, most importantly, thanks to everyone who took the time to suggest ideas for challenges, to read the articles, and to comment here or at Brisbane Times. Sometimes a tweet of support, or a Facebook "like" on a post, was all that stood between me and insanity. Never underestimate how powerful a positive message can be even if it is only 140 characters. Thank you all so very, very much.

#30before30: Finale

The weeks leading up to October 13 were a whirlwind of organising activities, taking on challenges, writing posts and doing up photos and videos to accompany them.  The whole 30 Before 30 project has been a lot of work.

And yet, nothing has been as difficult, as time-consuming, as agonising, as this final wrap-up piece.

Because, essentially… how to say it… I, well….failed.

Remember November: El Maco Shaker Fries

There are any number of "for a limited time only" menu items at major fast food chains that could provide fodder for Remember November. Just last year McDonald's launched its "Lean Beef Burger", which supposedly tasted even more rubbery than a balloon full of Congolese condoms. It's now been relegated to the annals of fast food history, along with those absolutely revolting KFC Bowls - the ones where they threw mashed potato, gravy, popcorn chicken and who knows what else into a plastic container, then charged you $5.95 for the privilege of eating something that would actually become tastier when you threw it up.

Of course, I personally don't tend to indulge in these fast food fads (just give me the cheeseburger, man). But there was one, back in 1993, that I yearn for, even occasionally dream about. Silly? Perhaps. But then, I ask you to watch this commercial and NOT drool over the prospect of El Maco Shaker Fries:

Sure, OK, the ad is just a little bit completely racist. But to THIS gringo, Shaker Fries were the absolute star of the El Maco promotion. Take a little sachet of nacho-like seasoning, throw it into a bag with the fries, then shake like a Mexican mayoral candidate.

Oh, the deliciousness! Oh, the flavour! Oh, the preservatives and MSG!

My brother and I would ask for extra sachets everytime we went to the Golden Arches. We knew we were on a limited wicket, and eventually the covers would come out. Generally the staff were quite nice about it. Maybe we looked a bit bogan and they didn't want to ruin what was probably the most exciting part of our week. Whatever. We stockpiled well, and once El Maco ended, had a good two months' worth of sachet goodness to sustain us. Of course, once that was all gone, we became like desperate heroin addicts during flood season in the Golden Triangle. We tried making our own out of paprika and chicken salt. But it wasn't the same, it was never the same. To this day, my brother and I will remember the passing of El Maco Shaker Fries with a brief pause, solemn nod of the head and the shared, unspoken thought that maybe one day, one day - El Maco will ride again. ¡Vamanos!

Giant Moth

A gigantic, ungodly moth creature paid a late night visit to Chez Clumsy. We made it do showtunes as punishment. Punishment!

Remember November: Andrew Ettingshausen's Penis

Football scandals are all so tawdry these days, aren't they? Just this week, Joel Monaghan quit the Canberra Raiders in disgrace, after a picture of him drunkenly forcing a dog to lick his beef Schmacko hit the public sphere. But back in the early 1990s, it was another footballing willy that stroked, sorry, stoked the fires of public imagination. And in hindsight, the whole affair seems rather, well, classy.

Andrew Ettingshausen was a rugby league footballer who played for the Cronulla Sharks, popular with football-lovin' ladies due to his clean-cut buff good looks. In 1991, Australian HQ magazine published a photograph of Ettingshausen having a post-game shower, showing off an entirely different sort of tackle.

Ettingshausen took the magazine to court for the unauthorised use of his image, and was eventually awarded a $350,000 damages payout (reduced to $100,000 on appeal). Sure, there were plenty of jokes around at the time, but compared to gang rape and bestiality scenarios, a bit of locker room lollybag action seems downright charming.

Ettingshausen must be pleased his controversy happened in the era before widespread internet use. Even though there would've been tight restrictions on what happened with his own "packing the scrum" photo, you'd think it would turn up in a quick Google Image search. But no, surprisingly, type in "Andrew Ettingshausen shower photo" and for some reason you get that Brendan Fevola snap of Lara Bingle's Golum impersonation.

ET himself now runs a fishing and adventure website/TV series. As a kid I never saw the offending photo, but maybe his new career can give me an insight into what thrilled everyone so much at the time:

It was *this* big.

Remember November: West Coast Coolers

To this day, I cannot tell you exactly what is in a West Coast Cooler. It's described as a "wine cooler". What is that? Is that normal wine, just chilled more? Is it a watered-down wine, or a souped-up wine? Is it coloured? Flavoured? WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?

This ad, apparently from the early 90s, does little to inform me, except to indicate that West Coast Coolers encouraged big hair, big dance moves and big sunglasses:

Admittedly I'm a teetotaller, so my knowledge of the grape and grain is rather limited. And I don't recall my parents ever having West Coast Coolers in the house, even when they seemed to be the drink de jour in the mid-1980s, so I never smelt or tasted one. By the time I was of an age to go to parties where alcohol was present, the girls tended to go for those Lemon Ruski Stollies that they could swig down by the six-pack before attempting to stand and realising the vodka content had somehow spirited away their sense of balance and decorum. West Coast Coolers seemed a distant, and rather daggy, memory.

My clearest recollection of West Coast Coolers though dates back to the years my family lived on Thursday Island, way up at the pointiest bit of Cape York. My father was the harbour master, and we lived in a ramshackle Queenslander provided for the HM by the state government. It backed onto the local football field. I remember my brother and I would run out to play on it. On Sundays in particular it would be covered in stripey West Coast Cooler bottletops. We used to pick them up and collect them, even turning them into a primitive currency. It was something like 75 WCCs to the Aussie dollar. Until I found an actual, real-life, sharp blue paper ten dollar note, flipping across the field in a strong breeze. Obviously, aged 5, that made me a billionaire, and I gave up WCC collecting to brainstorm ways I could spend my newfound fortune.

Remember November: Secret Valley

ABC's late 80s before-school children's TV programming was always gold. There was a particular anime-style show about Dorothy and her adventures in Oz that I loved, and you'd also get those brilliant La Linea and AEIOU cartoons.

But heads above the rest was Secret Valley, an Australian-made Grundy show about a summer camp resort-type thing for kiddies. It was a rustic bush setting, with a former gold-mine town as the kids' big playground. Who could forget the sight of that bell being run, summoning all the kids for dinner, or a camp meeting?

I would have liked nothing better than to go to Secret Valley. You know, hang out with fellow plucky teenagers, help animals, ride BMXs, and stop the machinations of the EVIL! That's right, EVIL! Spider McGlurk* and his villainous teenage henchmen of "Spider Cave". The fashion item I most desired as an 8-year-old was one of the brilliant navy blue raglan cut camp t-shirts with "Secret Valley" emblazoned upon them in bright yellow.

I often wonder if such a thing as Secret Valley would work in real life. Forget boring organised activities for kids -  actually pay a few actor types to run round pretending to be dodgy prospectors or real estate developers, leaving clues for the kids to solve. Resolve the whole thing with a massive flour or paint bomb fight, before a few fake coppers turn up to "nick" the bad guys. Repeat every day for two weeks, chucking in a bit of quad-biking and koala-feeding for good measure, then send 'em home as young adventurers. Hell, I'd be up for a camp like that myself - I'd love to be a dabble in knot-tying and improvised explosives.


*A rumour surfaced some years back that Spider was played by a young Russell Crowe. This is sadly incorrect. I think around 1984, Crowe was deep in his New Zealand punk star phase, when he changed his name to Russ le Roq and cut a single. I wish I was joking.

Remember November: Perkins Paste

Three items were compulsory in an Australian primary school pencil case in the late 1980s. 1) HB pencils. Generally red-coloured with a black end; 2) Erasers. Generally dingy green, with tapered ends, that smelled of fire when you scrubbed them too hard against paper; and 3) A tub of Perkins Paste, a delightfully clumpy sort-of glue, best known for its bright pink containers, white lids, and completely impractical flat stick applicator.

Sadly a Google image search could only turn up the label:

The apex of my Perkins Paste use was in Year 3, in Mrs Simmonds' class. Mrs Simmonds always seemed to like me, giving me A marks for many of my finer social studies or English projects. Of course, such projects - generally mounted on posterboard paper - required a decent amount of Perkins pasting. Mrs Simmonds then retired, but came back for a visit when I was in Year 7. She had no recollection of me at all, and by then I had no Perkins Pasted boards filled with detailed descriptions of the planets to jog her memory.

Sadly even I can no longer remember the smell of Perkins Paste, but I do recall it being far more palatable than the chemical scent of Clag, the big-bottomed gluepot that took over adhesive duties in my later primary years. Certainly daring classmates to eat Perkins Paste was a regular event, even a tad enjoyable. But you wouldn't eat Clag. No, not unless the dare involved a LOT of money. Fifty cents to a dollar, at least.

Remember November: Topsy Tail

You know what people had back in the early 90s? Hair. Lots of it. And lengths of it.

The 80s had been all about short hair - power crops, curly bobs, the odd big pixie cut. But the 90s was all about re-discovering femininity. Business suits and shoulder pads were tossed aside for floaty, wispy rayon dresses, and cheesecake cloth skirts. We also grew our hair long again - 'cause nothing screams "I'm a woman" than a scrunchie-clad ponytail.

But this is not about the scrunchie, nor the poor check-out lady at my local Woolworths who's still fighting a one-woman battle to keep the scrunchie relevant. This is about a device that exploded in popularity because it allowed you to do fancy things with your new long hair. It literally turned the hair world topsy turvy.

Topsy Tail was simply a bit of looped plastic that you would deploy to flip a ponytail inside itself, giving you a classy French-twist-esque style. The legitimate Topsy Tail was invented by businesswoman Tomima Edmark, but of course, I didn't buy that one. No, it wasn't long before $2 shops undermined Edmark's informercial juggernaut, so my Topsy Tails were inventive knock-offs with names like "Stylish Hair Tool".

Skilled Topsy Tailers could get more sophisticated, trying such decorative styles as "The Banded", "The Partial" and "The Double". Due to a love of period dramas, such as the BBC's Pride and Prejudice, my favourite became "The Victorian", in which you'd tuck the bottom of the ponytail up behind the topsied bit, giving you the windswept look of a Brontë heroine. Well, that's what I liked to think anyway.

I was sad to read that Topsy tail inventor Tomima Edmark has never recreated the success of Topsy Tail. Mind you, that little piece of plastic ran up at least $120 million in sales, so I daresay she's not crying herself to sleep. Of course the ultimate irony is that you don't really need a Topsy Tail device to achieve the Topsy Tail look. I wonder if people would be interested in having a communal celebration of this once-beloved hair-styling product? We could have a "Topsy Tail Tuesday", and post photos of our own Topsied styles on Facebook or Twitter. Who's in?

Remember November: Sweet Valley High

Pop culture has given us many endearing sets of twins. Thompson and Thomson from Tintin. Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. Those crazy magicians Christian Bale played in The Prestige.



But surely the most respected twins were Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield, made famous by the Sweet Valley High teen fiction series. Created by Francine Pascal in 1983, and ghost-written for the next 20 years, it followed the Wakefield twins' lives, loves and friendships in their "junior" year of high school (which after much confusion about freshmen and sophomores, I realised equated to Year 11).



It spawned countless spin-offs - Sweet Valley Kids (twins aged 7), Sweet Valley Twins (twins aged 12), Sweet Valley Junior High (I'd never even HEARD of this one but apparently it's the twins aged 14), and Sweet Valley University (twins aged 18, with *gasp* sex involved). There were also the super specials and mega-editions - such as the compendiums that traced the girls' maternal and paternal ancestors back 100 years. Eventually it even ran to a TV show - but the shiny tanned girls they got to play the twins lacked the 80s ash-blonde hair and fuller faces of the book covers.



                     

                        Right

Wrong



Of course, Elizabeth Wakefield was my personal inspiration. She was as beautiful and popular as Jessica, but also smart, kind and less obsessed with what people thought of her. She also wanted to be a journalist, something I'd already decided after reading my first Tintin comic. I dreamed of having a twin, an instant best friend who'd share all my hopes, dreams, and awesome outfits. Sadly, if I'd had a twin at all, I'd eaten it in the womb by the time I popped out solo, and as yearning for a twin-like best friend never resulted in one materialising, the books were the next best thing.



Perhaps my favourite was book 100, which told the story of Margo, an evil killer who looked just liked the twins, and decided to murder Elizabeth and steal her identity. A check of Wikipedia indicates that in true soapie style, Margo had her own twin, an equally evil killer named Nora. Further checking has led me to discover that *gasp* Francine Pascal is writing another book, to be published next year. Called Sweet Valley Confidential, it will look at the characters in their late 20s and early 30s. There's my reading list for 2011 covered.

Remember November: Culottes

Combining the femininity of a skirt with the practicality of shorts, the modern culotte enjoyed a big revival in the 80s. Originally culottes referred to knee-breaches European toffs wore back in the 1800s. But of course, they were bound at the knee, not let to flow loosely a la the late 20th century version. Culottes as we know them began life as divided skirts, designed to make riding horses less revealing. By the 80s, they came in varying lengths.

I recall having a deep, abiding love for a pair of short culottes, circa 1990. They were navy blue, with tiny, brightly coloured stars on them, and a thick black elastic band. I teamed them with a yellow t-shirt, and looked totes amazing, long before "totes" was ever a word.

Culottes shouldn't be confused with the skort, although there is some crossover. Literally. Skorts had a flap of material across the front to hide the short element beneath. For high school that couldn't bear the idea of their young female students showing a hint of masculinity in their wardrobes ("How will we tell them apart from the boys?!?!"), skorts were the ideal compromise. They would be teamed with what my mother used to call "Gripper Knickers", or in some sectors, "Scungies" - basically, massive lycra underpants designed to keep your modesty intact on sports day.

Recently I was delighted to pick up a pair of culottes in a little discount clothes store in the Myer Centre. They fit like a dream, but I was sadly disillusioned by how big they made my backside look, so returned them to the rack. But I am still in the hunt for a pair of culottes for spring/summer 10/11.

Remember November: "What's Up?"

My memory is a funny thing.

On the one hand, it seems more than capable of recalling key dates and details of historical figures and events. Other times, my mind will float away, generally mid-conversation, meaning I immediately forget what my interlocutor was just saying, meaning I wind up looking rude, inconsiderate, or colossally stupid. I find myself particularly poor at remembering incidents of my earlier years. Details become murky, years blend together.

So I'm going to spend the next 30 days remembering things. Mostly things from the 30 years I've been in existence. Hopefully they'll trigger other memories. However, as I'm still wrapping up the #30before30 challenge, I want to avoid its long, prosaic style, and go for a shorter, sharper approach.

I hope you enjoy "Remember November".