Words With... Nobody

The other afternoon, surrounded by good company and many friends, I had a moment of feeling completely and utterly alone.

In conversation, somebody brought up the online game Words With Friends - the Scrabble You Play When You're Not Playing Scrabble Due to Copyright Reasons.

All of a sudden the room exploded with chatter.  There was discussion of the game's relative merit/addictiveness. There was talk of triple word scores and tactics and dictionaries and cheating. It turned out they were all in various states of play with at least one other person in the room.

Except me.

Nice Beaver

Is fur still bad? If so, I'm going to hell - wrapped up nice and warm.

That's a genuine beaver fur wrap right there, my friends - the kind of dead animal that would make Priscilla Presley proud.

I had a fairly ordinary day yesterday; so it was wonderful to get to the Brisbane Arts Theatre in the evening and muck in ahead of our big Winter Wardrobe Sale tomorrow.

There are SO many costumes and vintage/retro clothes to be sold - and hats! Boxes and boxes of hats! I got told off for gasping too much at various beautiful items being tagged at just $5 or $10. I think I'm going to go a bit wild tomorrow.

At one point, the temptation became too great, and things deteriorated into what can only be described as a Pretty Woman-style dress-up montage. The furs got a good run.

Now is it wrong of me to admit that I quite... like... furs?

I had a beautiful beaver, and frankly, I couldn't stop stroking it.

I know it's terribly politically incorrect to say that. These days we shudder at the thought of little animals being bred just to die for fashion. Of course historically the wearing of dead animals was more a necessary barrier against the elements; but in the age of nylon and poly-cotton and lycra, we don't need it anymore. No more gore for us, thanks, we've got Gore-Tex.

But furs are just so... luxurious. So... olde-worlde, reminiscent of a bygone age of glamour. So... naughty. I find myself drawn to them. Drawn like a carefree beaver towards a baited trap.

Ouch.

So confess, ladies and gentlemen, as you ready your wallets for the assault on the BAT Winter Wardrobe Sale - what (suitable for work) things are you drawn to that you know you really shouldn't be?

On Watching Television

This post is inspired by Game of Thrones, but written to be non-spoilerific.

Last weekend, I sat down on my comfy red couch in my comfy red jumper, and flicked on the teev.

I'd had most of Game of Thrones, the latest HBO uber-series, sitting on the multimedia hard drive player thingy for weeks. I'd watched the first episode months ago and enjoyed it well enough, but last Saturday I finally found myself with enough of a "day off" to sit down and consume some more.

And what a feast. By gum I splurged. If Game of Thrones episodes were calories, then I totally need to join Weight-Night's-Watchers (Geddit, Game of Thrones fans? Geddit?).

For the non-initiated, Game of Thrones is based on a series of books by George R.R. Martin, the first of which came out around the same time as the first Harry Potter. However, there's still two more of Martin's to come. I had never heard of the books; indeed fantasy is not really my genre. I love Xena: Warrior Princess, of course, but since it's virtually historical fact, it doesn't really count.

Anyway, the basic details are:

a) It's set in a country called Westeros, which is divided into seven kingdoms, united under one king.
b) Many people of noble/not-so-noble blood have their eye on the "Iron Throne".
c) There are MACHINATIONS. And NUDITY. Often NUDE MACHINATIONS.

But the main thing to keep in mind is:

d) Sean Bean will F**K YOUR S**T UP.

You want proof? Here's Ireland's favourite son (and the best Bond villain of the modern era, in my opinion), thinking about f**king some s**t up:

"I'll need my horse."

Here he is again, on horseback, considering his strategies:

"I'll need my sword."

A quick interlude of machinations nude:

Sky-clad shenanigans!

But then, bam! Sean Bean again, just moments away from totally f**king your s**t up:

"This is what f***king your s**t up looks like."

Now I'm not just a geeky pervert, getting high on a cross between Lord of the Rings, The Sopranos and Westeros Girls Gone Wild. No, Game of Thrones has inspired such gratuitous use of the phrase "f**k your s**t up" because the characters are so wonderfully drawn. Even the vapid, stupid ones have their motivations, their comeuppances and their bring-down-em-ances.

But it made me wonder - how much did the WAY in which I consumed Game of Thrones influence my sudden and frankly disturbing obsession with it?

I grew up in the BD era - which stands for Before DVD Box Sets, or if you're into such things, Before Downloads and iView. Mulder and Scully didn't just watch themselves. You had to really commit to series television.

But then I grew up, and I started university and work and all sorts of creative things away from televisions that made it harder to keep up with regularly scheduled programming. TV started to pass me by. While that may have been somewhat pleasing to my Dad, something happened while he was distracted by international cruising holidays and shiny, shiny gadgets.

Spurred on by targeted, niche programming, better production values and kickass casts - the kind of stuff HBO does so well - and boosted by access on demand, TV-watching actually became an admirable, nay, worthy past-time. Being a TV addict now gives you cred, man.

There's still a place for the weekly series view. For example, there's no way an episode of Doctor Who could go unwatched at Chez Clumsy - the mere suggestion of "holding off" would be enough to send any number of replica sonic screwdrivers hurtling into walls. So hooking up to the TV series drip feed is still a viable option, particularly when you can slot it into your own schedule. And there's a certain sense of payoff in waiting for your next fix.

But is it more fun to save everything up and blow it all across a couple of sittings? I'm not sure. Will I retain this newfound keenness for fantasy, burning brightly after a short but intense exposure?  Or will it ebb and grow as cold as the Winter that ominous characters throughout Game of Thrones keep tell me Is Coming?

How do you consume your TV? And how do you choose what to watch?

Sigh/Kick

It's just gone 1:04am, and I'm watching PsychicTV, a live-to-air Foxtel forecast-a-thon, which has been picked up by the digital free-to-air channel Gem.

Why? Getting ready for bed... left the channel on after Conan O'Brien... no excuse really.

The host is a skeletal blonde with an unforgiving asymmetrical bob. When she turns to talk to her guest psychic, the longer right-hand slick of hair obscures her face.

She welcomes a Blondie Psychic wearing thick black eyeliner, and they take voice and text message requests from viewers. Blondie Psychic provides a "snapshot" reading, and Skeletal Bob encourages the person - and all home viewers - to ring in for a full consultation.

At $5.45 a minute.

Simon texts "I'm studying now, but I have no idea what I'll be doing in a year from now. Can you see anything for me?"

Blondie Psychic shuffles her big tarot cards and says she sees success. She says she believes Simon will change fields and do something different, and that will lead to A Lot of Money.

And I think - surely it's not that much of a jump to land on Simon's text's subtext? That he may not be entirely satisfied with his current study choice. So isn't she just... suggesting the obvious, with a little glitter on top?

Skeletal Bob bades farewell to Blondie Psychic, who'll take a place in one of the booths behind the hosting desk, where she'll join other TV psychics taking calls from home viewers.

At $5.45 a minute.

80s Fringe Psychic is welcomed to the hosting desk.

I think 80s Fringe Psychic may be a man. Surely no woman who lives in the modern age still thinks a heavily blow-dried side parting mixed with a short feathered fringe is acceptable.

But Skeletal Bob maintains she is an expert astrologer, clairvoyant and author, so 80s Fringe Psychic is allowed to offer a texter some consolation on whether her time for love has arrived.

"You have to work out what love means to you," she says, "Then work out how to find that love in your life."

It manages to be both simplistic AND confusing. There is more sense in early-90s Eurodance tracks.

Still, I'm intrigued. I wonder what they would say, if I called them up? Would they predict fame and fortune? If they saw my future as obscurity writ large, would they tell me?

Better yet, what would they say if I asked them some real doozies?

"Can you tell me what the federal government intends to price carbon at in its emissions trading scheme? I'd like to get the jump on my big polluting rivals".

"Can you tell me the name of the horse that will win this year's Melbourne Cup? I'm a bit worried about my finances and thought if I had that information, I could secure my family's future very easily."

"My friend has cancer. Are they going to die?"

But then I realise that if I DID ring up, I would be charged.

At $5.45 a minute.

Yes. Well. Quite.

Concluding a discussion on "revving up" someone called Raven's creativity, Skeletal Bob and 80s Fringe Psychic have the following exchange...

"We're unique anyway - why not be SUPER unique?"

"Yes, we like being super unique!"

.... without a hint of irony.

And I realise.

In half an hour of polluting my brain with this nonsense, Simon is the only male name I've seen.

By and large, the callers seeking advice are women.

Why, ladies? Why?

Love, money, family, health and career are the hot topics, but most requests are "Can you see anything for me this year?"

Why do we need this? Why do we want this?

Are we more enlightened than our brothers, living on a higher plane of consciousness?

Or are we just bigger suckers for bullshit?

Do we just need someone outside ourselves and our immediate circle of friends and families to stroke us on the head and say "Good girl, it will all be all right."

I chew my lip.

I could DO this stuff. I'm a reasonable actor, and I'm a top-notch bullshitter.

But not even I, with my devilish conscious, could allow myself to charge you for it.

At $5.45 a minute.

So, I am pleased to declare PSYCHIC CLUMSY open for business.

Tell me your fears, your concerns. Ask me your questions, on any topic. I shall respond to answers about love, family, career and health like so:

"Good girl, it will all be all right."

And if your question is about your finances, then I shall suggest you buy a pack of tarot cards, set yourself up as a home psychic, and open a hotline offering advice.

At $5.45 a minute...

...you should be back in the black in no time.

In the Mood

My parents recently returned from another one of their mysterious overseas trips.

My father would tell you they can afford these extravagant jaunts due to a lifetime of hard work and prudential investments, but I suspect they've established a gun-running operation to the more "unhinged" parts of the Niger Delta. I mean, they've got to fund their chronic pokies addiction somehow.

This time round, they spent time in my mother's birthplace, Ireland - no doubt to finally shoot the gasping Celtic Tiger and add its skin to their collection of ghoulish objets d'art. As they were whisked out of the Republic by burly chaps with Fields of Athenry lyrics tattooed on their foreheads, they bought me some commemorative jewellery.

BAT Winter Wardrobe Sale

The Brisbane Arts Theatre is holding another one of its massive Costume Department sales on Saturday 25 June. If you love vintage and retro fashion, op-shopping - or you're looking for costumes for work or play - write it in your diaries. It's going to be bargains galore.

The BAT Costume Department is one of my favourite places in the world. It's just so full of... stuff. Of course, that happens with the accumulation of years and creations and donations. It's the reason for the sale too - the department is going to be shifted into a smaller building at the theatre complex, so it needs to shed about one-third of its stock.

I've been up there snapping a few photos - both to capture the charm and anarchic disorder of the place, and to promote the sale. Hope you enjoy my little compilation video (and thanks to Robyn, Frances and Trevor for their help).

Saturday 25 June

8am to 2pm

Prices start from just ONE dollar.

Cash preferred but credit cards/Eftpos accepted.

Spoiled by Choice

If there was one thing you could count on Nancy Drew to do, it was to solve mysteries.

Every novel, there she was, tall and blonde and glamourously eighteen, daughter of a lawyer, using her inquiring mind, sharp senses, and disregard for proper channels of authority to deduce her way through riddles, conundrums, puzzles and dilemmas.

Adventure! Suspense! Fire hazards!

From memory, the key to cracking the case was almost always a dusty, long-forgotten dumbwaiter. The murderer either used it as a clever getaway, or threw the murder weapon into it. Of course, that required some pretty clever plot twists to get the murder to occur in a large New England mansion (particularly when it was called something like The Hawaiian Beach Party Homicide), but Carolyn Keene always found a way.

Even though I wised up to Nancy Drew's winning ways fairly early on, each time I started a new novel, I'd get a few pages in and do something that would outrage, horrify and disappoint almost everyone I knew.