Uninspired & Terrified

It's a sad day to realise that not only do you feel like you have nothing to say, but that you feel something akin to fear in saying anything at all.

Here it comes - the obligatory "Gee, I don't blog much anymore, do I?" post.

I've been avoiding it all year, truth be told. I read a "Tips for How to Blog Properly" type of list once that said you should never write such a post because it will frustrate your readers. Instead, you should just post when you are inspired.

But it's been so long since I was inspired, hasn't it? My last few posts have been relatively run of the mill. I couldn't even summon the energy to write in more detail about my beloved He Died With a Felafel in His Hand adventure at the Powerhouse. You'd think I could've mustered up some juicy titbits about staging a production, or lyrical prose about the transience of art and shared human experiences in the performance realm.

But no. I was too busy living the production, being responsible for as much detail as possible, and trying to keep my own head above water during a stressful time that it all went in a blur and now almost feels like a dream just out of reach. Like a massage with a feather, leaving just a faint sensation of having been drawn across your skin.

I write all day, (almost) every day for work now, you see. I enjoy my job as an arts writer, but it uses a lot of the creative energy that I used to dollop out on blogging. I have to find a way into arts stories, write them in an interesting and hopefully dynamic way. I spend a lot of time on trying to make what I write something people will want to read. It's not a task that I can ever imagine finishing to my complete satisfaction. There will always be more to try, more to do.

When something happens and I get the faint spark of an idea for a blog post, it is hard to capture that and keep it sacred, keep it away from the gaping maw of the internet, whose job it is to write, rewrite, attack, counter-attack and reposte on every conceivable topic all before I've had my lunch on any given day.

There's so much on the internet, you see. So much sturm und drang, so much opinion, so many articles about what does and does not constitute equality/sexism/douchebaggery/right/wrong, so much goddamned commentary about rape that it makes me want to scream.

I'm not an expert on anything, so why should I throw my voice into the beast? What good does it do? What the hell do I know? At a time in my life where I'm slowly growing more confident in my own skills to achieve certain things, I have simultaneously never felt dumber. Apart from a few dodgy puns, I'm at a loss to explain what kind of contribution I can make.

Putting out any kind of "statement" now seems risky. Given the aforementioned state of "feeling dumb", I constantly feel that I am "wrong", that what I think is abhorrent to others and a stigma on me. All of it - their opinions, my opinions, are tiring.

The other night I tweeted about tattoos...

Girls in the valley - you have such lovely legs, why ruin them with tattoos?
— Natalie Bochenski (@girlclumsy) November 16, 2013

...which prompted a few narky responses about my use of the word 'ruin'. I was called out for being judgemental and/or making women feel bad about their bodies.

I got a bit flustered by that, and metaphorically threw my hands up. "There's just no point saying anything," I thought.

I felt angered because I'm really quite the feminist, and actually believe in freedom of choice. I honestly am happy for people to tattoo the words to Nine Inch Nails' Closer on their forehead if it's what they want.

But you know what? I WAS judging. Because I personally hate tattoos. I loathe them, on men and women. My brain's particular pleasure centres find them displeasing. I do actually think that when you're a young woman with slim toned legs that I personally would strangle a newborn kitten for, that tattoos flung carelessly about your thighs do "ruin" them.

(Here I feel compelled to give a disclaimer: I think I'm personally ruining my body through all number of other factors - poor diet, not enough exercise, sun exposure, etc. So I don't feel "superior", I just feel "judgy").

I do accept reasons that people get tattoos done - remembering or honouring family members or friends, for the beauty they find in them, and most importantly of all, because they fricking well just want some fricking tattoos, and despite the best efforts of the Queensland government, we don't yet live in a total police state.

Now, I hear you wondering, and I myself am pondering, what the frick does it matter if I hate tattoos or not? Maybe I should just shut the hell up and let people get on with their lives. Which is absolutely true.

But it proved to me that I have just gone quiet on so many things. Even just writing the above about disliking tattoos has me fearful of copping an earful.

I've just shut up because I'm honestly too tired to argue, and because I'm tired of being "wrong" all the time. And if I've just shut up about something so trivial (ie tattoos), what else have I shut up about?

Pretty much everything.

I've been listening to the song Roar by Katy Perry a lot recently. I know it's just gummy candy pop with a cute video clip, but a few of its lyrics seem to issue a warning that's hit me right in the girly brain meats.

"I stood for nothing, so I fell for everything."

I would like to stand for something. For several things, even. More importantly, I would like to be able to articulate my position without fear of causing offence and being "wrong".

Hopefully my next post will be about what those things are.*

*Beyond "Say no to tattoos", obviously.

Lost in Translation, or, Chinese Whispers

I have thousands of pictures in my iPhone's camera roll. Occasionally I try to go through and delete batches of them, but still they mount up.

During one such attempted clean-out while standing in a queue this weekend, I found shots from my trip to China earlier this year, which I had always intended to form into a hopefully-interesting-sort-of-post.

One of my favourite things about visiting China is seeking out odd products, and even better, the mistranslation of product descriptions into English. I think it's because Chinese is a very visual, descriptive language, and the transplanting of those concepts into English is either innately pretty or hilariously off-putting.

For example: These wax strips are described as "Depilate Sacrificial Paper", and when you think about, that kind of makes sense. You are, after all, offering up your unwanted body hair to the temple of beauty. Note: these strips work best on human body limbs, so forget about waxing your ... cat.

Here's a helpful product to stop the waste plastic bags create. My favourite is the pleading catchphrase at the bottom of the pack.

This one was for some sort of music festival. I've got no idea what's going on.

A still picture doesn't really do justice to the "Shrilling Chicken". When you squeezed this toy, it let off a sound that can only be described as a busty soprano being steamrolled by a boiling kettle.

I'm pretty certain the "There are no ugly women only lazy women" line is credited to Coco Chanel. But who came up with "Clothes is women's face job", Buffalo Bill?

If memory serves, these didn't taste half bad.

And then there was this one. Again, no idea.  I almost bought this one, because I wanted to try to work out exactly what it was. My best guess was an ice-block mould in the shape of the dog turd. But I chickened out of forking over my hard-earned yuan for it because of the SWASTIKA EYEBALLS. I just didn't want to answer odd questions at Customs on the way back into Australia.

These next ones were my favourite. We took a day trip out to the Mutianyu section of the Great Wall, and our driver decided the best way to entertain us on the hour-long commute would be to whack on his pirated copy of noted singer Sarah Brightman's 2008 opus A Winter Symphony.

I can say that it was pirated because - beyond the obvious joke - the English lyrics to the songs were fantastically wrong. As in, I could sit here for days and not come up with a funnier match of song title and actual lyrics.

That's the lyrics of Jumpin' Jack Flash by the Rolling Stones, NOT Ave Maria. And it's followed by I Believe in Father Christmas, which bears a striking resemblance to Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves. As I said, comic fricking genius.

But the best was this one - and sadly I don't know the name of the song, but Canto Della Terra sure got a lot fruitier than Ms Brightman probably intended.

Have you got any good examples of strange products and crazy translations?

Floods on the First Floor

You guys, I've found this wonderfully relaxing hobby called "renovating".

You should all try it.

I went into this process with the mantra that everything would probably take a bit longer and cost a bit extra than I predicted.

It has, and that's cool. That's renovating.

Fake Disneyland

My poor blog, how I neglect you.

I'm in a frustrating position where I want to post here more often, but find myself without the time or inspiration for an entry. Or I twist myself in knots trying to think of the wittiest possible take on a subject before abandoning the idea as ultimately fruitless or "done somewhere else, probably better".

Then when I do get some time - such as a few stolen moments on holiday in Beijing last week - the Great Firewall stopped my upload attempts.

Anyway, that's enough self-flagellation - hopefully I will get a chance over the next few days to post a few things that have been sliding their way through my brain meats.

For now, I thought you might enjoy this short film made at the Shijingshan Amusement Park in Beijing's west.

My fellow improviser Amy - who I had travelled with to attend the fourth annual Beijing Improv Festival - was keen to check out the so-called "Fake Disneyland.

And so it was that we arrived on a Monday morning to find one of the strangest places on Earth.

Stop the Bookshelf Porn

Everyone on the internet loves bookshelf porn.

You know what I'm talking about.

That constant stream of photos that do the rounds on social media, attracting drooling "likes", adoring retweets, and gushing comments:

OMG IT'S A PACMAN SHELF CAUSE PACMAN
WAS RENOWNED FOR HIS LOVE OF CHERRIES & BOOKS

It's a bookshelf that says READ, because that's insightful
and encouraging, you know?

I'm going to get a pointy house just so I can build this!

ARGHGHGH IT'S A POD A READING POD SO ERGONOMIC

It's an ideas tree, can you FEEL your creativity GROWING?
Also books are made of trees so it's like a life cycle.

I realise I sound like a bitter illiterate (billiterate?) sow, but honestly, have you people never heard of dust?

Sure, these bookshelves are marvellously creative and appeal to our collective sense of whimsy, but let's think of the practicalities.

You show me one of these bookshelves IN REAL LIFE, and I'll show you a warren of so many dust bunnies you could re-enact Watership Down.

Honestly, all these internet people with fancy bookshelves must live in hermetically sealed, climate controlled environments, where no dust can permeate.

Or maybe they clean regularly or something. Whatever.

All I know is that it seems sometimes that these pictures appeal to people because they fancy themselves as "book people".

You know, the kind of people who imagine themselves as thoroughly literate types, with iced tea and organic mini-muffins on hand as they tuck themselves into their bohemian book nook to take in the latest insert 'posh' or 'cred' author here.

Bless you, if you are one of those people. I often wish I could be like you. You probably wash your hair in pure mountain streams and knit your own hemp trousers. All very admirable, until your allergies play up from all the dust collecting on your stack of Frankie magazines.

Me? I'm trying to clear out books from Chez Clumsy. I've got too many. Of course there are a few favourite fictions and cherished non-fictions that I'll always hold onto, but the vast majority have no re-read value. They're just dust collectors.

Before you slam me as having no romance in my soul, please remember that bagging books does not mean I'm bagging reading.

I bought myself an iPad before heading to Burma last year, and I can tell you that the main thing I've used it for is reading eBooks. The damn thing's a bloody marvel. I don't even have to dog-ear a page to remember where I'm up to. THE iPAD REMEMBERS.

And sure, while the first books I read on it were Stieg Larsson's Millenium Trilogy, followed by A Clash of Kings (aka Game of Thrones Series 2), I have just finished Hilary Mantel's Bring Up the Bodies, and that's PROPER literary.

Also, you can't get paper cuts from iPads. Paper cuts frighten me on a level only topped by geckos. Just consider this for a moment: getting a paper cut ON YOUR EYEBALL.

Yeah.

I once thought of that, and then almost vomited. The thought has haunted me ever since. I shouldn't even write it here, lest the mere noting of the fear helps it manifest in the form of outraged hemp-knitting, Frankie devotees baying for my blood in between cups of dandelion tea.

Point is - is it OK to not like having books around the place anymore? Have I completely lost my soul because I want less dust in my house?

Take that as a Comment

It should be no surprise to hear that I love getting comments on my blog posts.

I'm terrible at replying at comments, which another reason why I'll never make it as a pro-blogger (the other reason being I have no theme here beyond brittle dignity and a Game of Thrones obsession).

Sadly the majority of blog comments that I get at the moment are spam. I seem to be on the receiving end of a big upswing in faux-complimentary spam, in which the content and style of various posts are praised to high heaven in fairly generic terms, before a subtle mention of their own spammy website is dropped in.

But tonight while doing a semi-regular deletion of spam comments, I came across my first spam insult.

This spammer obviously read The Game and decided "negging" was the ideal way to provoke me into action. My goodness! I've been insulted! Who does this guy think he is? Oh, he facilitates same-day loans? Wow... I was going to get angry but then I remembered I really need $300 in fast cash at 55% interest to get me through to my next pay day...

It's like those spruikers for gyms who stand on street corners and hand you coupons that excitedly describe in thick coloured fonts the discounts you will get if you sign up RIGHT NOW to their high-tech . And for a brief moment you think "Oh cool, maybe that's a good deal", before thinking "Hey, why they hand it specifically to me?"

The point of all this is that I'm considering turning comment spam detection on which sucks because I hate that word recognition bollocks. You'd think a key factor in a word recognition program would be the ability to recognise words. My eyesight is pretty damn good, but it takes me seconds to untangle the swirled-about-and-jammed-together letters and most times I get it wrong.

I realise that throwing hurdles up for commenters generally discourages commenters, so I won't turn it on straightaway. If anybody has other advice or suggestions, I'm happy to hear them - just leave a comment about comments in the comments.

Eight Reasons Why I Still Suck At Blogging

At some point around this time of year, www.girlclumsy.com celebrates its birthday. 2012 marks eight years of fairly continual blogging at this address. EIGHT YEARS.

I typed "Birthday" into a free stock photo website.
I swear this is what came up.

Every so often, I trawl around the blog-o-sphere and have a look at what else is happening, and what blogging advice is out there. You see, while my blog is comparatively old, at least in Australian terms, it turns out that the most powerful and influential blogs are generally less than five years old. Somehow these blogging whippersnappers have come in and whippersnipped my lawn - before I got a chance to cut the grass and live fat off the land first.

The metaphor may be long and confusing, but the point is clear.

I have been blogging for eight years. And yet, I still suck at it. And to celebrate my anniversary, here are eight reasons why.


1. I do not have children.

The biggest bloggers all seem to be parents; generally women. It's cool, it's totally cool, I get that blogging is a fantastic outlet for mothers, a great way to keep connected, share stories and even make money. I am a feminist and value your personal choices. That sounds sarcastic, I know, but I do mean it. However, this means it's difficult for me to join that conversation. The fact that I don't have children disqualifies me from any discussion about child-rearing, no matter how many times I might point out that I was once a child who was parented. I get that I do not understand the love a parent feels for their child, no matter how many times I might point out that I've seen how upset my mother gets if I even stub a toe. I did recently blog about something emerging from my body, but for some reason a colonoscopy doesn't cut it next to a baby. WHO KNEW.

2. I don't make anything/cook anything/photograph anything/style anything/advise anyone.

I am completely and utterly void of internet-appropriate talent. I have nothing of originality to offer the greater digital audience. All I have are half-baked ideas and concepts; washed down with a pinch of sass and OCCASIONAL OVERUSE OF CAPS. I have no expertise in anything. According to the experts, blogging is supposed to be about finding your "niche" and targeting an audience that is interested in that niche. My niche turns out to be a large-ish, Girl Clumsy-shaped hole in a small corner of the lounge room that is the world wide web. I know they say it's a "long tail", but this is ridiculous.

3. I don't write enough about my Emotions and Feelings.

I typed "Emotions" into a free stock photo website.
I swear this is what came up.

I read this quote recently: "Write content that will make others break down in tears." Jesus O'Christ, can you imagine me doing that? I already struggle to get any readers for posts that are about personal activities. Anything I write about my theatre work gets bugger all of a response. So I can hardly imagine how I'd become more popular or influential by writing MORE about being tired from hard work; or experiencing worry about a theatre show not going as well as I'd like it; or feeling self-congratulatory because something I did paid off. You know why? I am a white, middle-class, well-educated first world resident. I have no disability. I have no horror stories. I am held aloft in a fluffy white cloud of privilege by the fragrant updraft of born lucky.

(In case it needed to be said, I am not passing judgement on bloggers who do write about their personal stories of hardship. I read and admire many such blogs. The reason I do not write about my own is because they really do pale into insignificance).

4. I don't do guest posts on other blogs.

Frankly, nobody's asked me, and I haven't asked anybody. What would I say? "Hey, popular fashion/lifestyle/parenting/fitness/photography blogger, you know what you need? A guest post about the time I went through two different KFC drive-thrus on the one half hour trip!" Sure, the issue of Snack Boxes not being fulfilling is one to canvass, but I'm pretty sure no other blog wants to hand me the easel.

5. I do not have enough social media networks.

I have Twitter. I have Facebook. I have Instagram on my iPhone, and I use it occasionally so I can put a filter on a picture and feel artistic. I got an invite to Pinterest, signed up, tried to set up a "pinboard" or whatever, the whole thing collapsed, and I gave up on the spot. I have not been able to summon the merest fraction of energy required to go back into the damn thing and work out how to become a "pinner". Which is apparently what I need to do to become a successful blogger, because it's now the most popular site driving traffic to blogs and rah-rah-rah GOD DAMNIT HOW DO YOU BLOGGERS KEEP THIS UP IT'S EXHAUSTING.

6. I have never read nor written an "eBook".

Apparently as bloggers you're supposed to write eBooks. Or at the very least, read other bloggers' eBooks, often about blogging. Is it just me, or does blogging seem to be turning into a giant pyramid scheme? You write an eBook that tells buyers how they can make money by writing an eBook.

7. I have not attended a blogging conference.

At the end of June there was a one-day blogging conference in Sydney. I thought about flying down, meeting some people, making contacts, finally learning what the hell "SEO" stands for, and why I'm supposed to be using it. In the end, I couldn't make it work time and cost-wise. Everyone who's ever been to a blogging conference says you have to go. But I'm so behind the eight-ball already. I mean, there's at least 17 different eBooks I'd need to read before I went. And then I'd have to try to explain who I am, and what I write about, and sum it up in a catchy way.... which leads me to...

8. I do not have a proper "brand".

This neatly wraps up all of the above points. I'm Girl Clumsy. That's not a good brand. No one wants to be associated with clumsiness. Unless Band-Aids or ElastoPlast get involved, a quest to "monetise" Girl Clumsy would be about as effective as trying to polish crystal with a pork sandwich. But as a brand, even a crappy one, I'm supposed to write for my readers, and keep in mind what they would like to read about.

Really?

In that case, PLEASE tell me what you'd like to read about. I struggle for ideas sometimes. I don't know what people like, but I'm happy to try any suggestions. Even kinky ones. Maybe I could crank out the next 50 Shades of Grey?

At the end of the day, I blog because I like to write, and I hate to write, so I make myself write publicly to hopefully get feedback to remind me that I do in fact like to write. Convoluted? Sure. It doesn't always work - this year has seen me lose a friend due, in part, to a blog post - but generally I like to throw things up and see if any of 'em stick. Sometimes I'm even proud of things I write.

However I realise this laissez-faire, scatter-gun approach is NOT good for brand-building. I can't hope to ever make money out of this thing. All these words, words, words - I'm pretty sure eight years' worth would equate to several eBooks - but no moola.

And I'm starting to think it really is too late. I missed the blogging train in 2009/2010, which seems to be when I should've really started shovelling coal into the engine. I guess I'm a little bitter. I started blogging in an era where you didn't seem to have to have an audience, a readership, targeted demographics and media kits. You could just write about what you wanted and if you were entertaining enough, people would hopefully come back and read your stuff.

Now with the much-trumpeted death of traditional media in sniffing distance, blogging is becoming the new mainstream. It's learning from its predecessors' mistakes and honing in on what grabs and keeps readers, and more importantly, how to make money from those statistics.

Maybe I'm more than bitter. Maybe I'm a bit frustrated. Maybe I'm quite envious. Maybe I'm even getting... ANGRY.

But on the plus side, at least I've written a blog about my Emotions and Feelings. eBook format to follow.

I typed "eBook" into a free stock photo website.
I swear this is what came up.

Labelling the Joke

Has anybody else noticed clothing is becoming increasingly self-aware?

I'm referring to the phenomenon of the faux-comedic label, or in some cases, the hipster-ironic label.

I first noticed this trend about 10 years ago when I got my first Crumpler bag. The label went into humourously ranty details about how the bags were so tough, they'd survive monster trucks, or space, or your little brother etc etc.

It was amusing at the time, but I get the feeling the urge to offer opinion and commentary on labels is getting out of control. Here are a few recent examples I've come across:

This was attached to a pair of jeans, but reads more like an eHarmony profile than a description of pants. I guess they're trying to cash in on the endless search for a perfect pair of jeans with a plaintative appeal to your vanity. It's love at first trite.

I would've been tempted to put back the sneakers had I read this label before purchase. I mean, it's great you have confidence in your product, Puma, but does the word "humility" mean anything to you? It's basically saying "Hey, you're some office lackey who's bought joggers because, let's face it, you've stacked on a bit. Most of the people who wear our shoes are the complete opposite of you - they're good looking celebrities with sexy bodies, unlike that doughy bag of misshapen lumps you're planning to haul around the park in our sneakers. So our products are not only good enough for you, to be honest, they're better than you, and you should feel a little bit grateful we've decided to accept your cash."

Also, I'm yet to understand the equation:  Somebody wearing these shoes in a magazine = They Work. I've seen pictures of Katy Perry attempting to wear clothes in a magazine, doesn't mean it works.

This is the label from a geeky t-shirt, sold through one of many online retailers specialising in short-run geeky t-shirts. Packages of this sort regularly turn up at Chez Clumsy. They're usually for The Wah. Science-based geeky t-shirts must form a vital part of his Zombie Apocalypse Survival Plan, because I've never seen someone so dedicated to accumulating them.

This label is more your out-and-out cheeky comedy. "One shirt, no shoes, no service"? Ha! That's just like that thing they say outside pubs except you can't wear a t-shirt into a pub, get it? And at the bottom "Not to be used as pants" - because it's a shirt! Who'd wear a t-shirt as pants? No one, that's who, because your testes would dangle out the neckhole, and wouldn't that be embarrassing/erotic?

Now, it's not that I don't appreciate the little label jokes. But it makes me think about the people who are employed to come up with this stuff. Is is carefully market-researched? Or is is just the demented ravings of someone in the production design department? I'd like to think the latter, but in this day and age, it's likely to be the former. At least for the big multi-national corporates - they'd hire a bunch of PR graduates to sit around and brainstorm brand-appropriate "humour".

I'd love to know if there is any efficacy data behind all these cheeky labels. I'd imagine most people only read the label after they've purchased the item, and are removing it, or looking for washing instructions. But do the labels have any impact on the purchase decision? Is anyone out there looking at jeans and thinking "These really represent the vapid narcissistic values I hold dear"?

Do you have any examples of cheeky labels on products you've bought?

You've Got... Male?

"You didn't say good-byyyyye." she drawled from the back of the post office. "Din't ya hear me sayin' good-byyyye?"

She was tall, taller than me, and much taller than the companion she now rushed towards to embrace.

The post office queue was unreasonably long for 2:30 in the afternoon, and the couple moved to join the line just behind me. Obviously it wasn't good-byyyyye, not yet.

She kept moving into my peripheral vision, as she surveyed a range of children's books and toys strategically placed to be a nemesis for parents.

"Awwr, remember this?" she intoned, as she picked up a soft-cover copy of Animalia.

"Yeahh," came the second voice. "Ya gotta look for a clock or something, doncha?"

I say second voice, second person, the other, Two - because I have no idea what sex and/or gender they were. And it was to prove a frustrating puzzle.

Winning... Something. Anything.

Maybe it's all this election business that's been on of late, but for some reason I've got the hankering to win something.

It doesn't have to be a 77-seat majority in the Queensland parliament; I think that might be over-egging the pudding (for everyone, really).

But it's been... I don't know... years since I actually *won* anything. Like a prize, or a trophy, or a certificate.

I know it's trivial, and not necessarily reflective of your general success in life, etc etc, blah blah blah - but who doesn't like to be picked out for something ahead of a bunch of other people? I'm sure scientists work hard on weighty matters concerning the nature of the universe because they're passionate about learning and understanding, but come on. You think they've never once thought about a Nobel Prize? Even just a little?

Yumi, Kony & Misplaced Rage

My friend Dan falls into spells of inexplicable rage at the moment.

"For no real reason," he confessed to me on Wednesday afternoon. "I was doing something in the kitchen the other day, and I just got furious about the idea of a merciful God. If a real person behaved like that guy, they'd be locked up as a psychopath."

Now Dan co-hosts a science and skeptics podcast, so I guess it's a hazard of his job to become occasionally infuriated by immaculate misconceptions.

But as I emerged briefly from my state election bubble on Wednesday evening, I became aware of two current (.... events? Issues? Memes?... let's just go with) things... that seemed to reflect Dan's experience of misplaced rage on a national, and an international scale.

The first was the online destruct-a-thon of Channel Ten presenter Yumi Stynes, over comments she made about Australian Victoria Cross recipient Ben Roberts-Smith.

I knew something controversial had happened on morning chat show The Circle, but wasn't really aware until now of the vitriol hurled at Stynes. The wonderful Heathen Scripture has a great piece on it, and the acerbic John Birmingham is spot on as usual at Brisbane Times.

What Stynes (and let's not forget, George Negus) said was inappropriate and insensitive. But the level of pure bile and personal abuse spreading across social media, online forums and the dreaded comment sections did seem far in excess of justified, stern criticism.

I was going to put it down to simple internet trolling, but then I saw the Twitter hashtag #Kony2012, and eventually got the chance to watch the associated film.

Produced by the charity Invisible Children, this film is an inspirational way to spend 30 minutes of your time. It chronicles the charity's fight to bring Ugandan warlord Joseph Kony to justice for his truly evil crimes against humanity. The group is advocating a worldwide protest on April 20, to cover your local streets with posters and flyers of Kony, in order to "make him famous". The aim is to keep American military advisers in Uganda, to help the local army finally track Kony down and capture him.

The documentary is bold, it's beautiful, it pulls all the right emotional strings. The existence of child soldiers is truly one of the most abhorrent and perverted phenomena of our time. There is nothing to redeem Kony; he is a monster who deserves his number one ranking on the International Criminal Court's hit list.

And so the online world has exploded in fury that he continues to walk free, and the video has been shared at a rapid pace.

We are angry. And it feels good to be angry, particularly when somebody truly deserves it.

It's good to have a bad guy. A bad guy we could conceivably track down. A bad guy who doesn't force us to question our own role in his creation, a la Saddam Hussein or Osama bin Laden. Joseph Kony is an ideal supervillain.

And so our anger is funnelled there, even when it's potentially questionable, because we feel useful. We can wear bracelets, put up flyers, post photos on Facebook (even though the site has blocked a dissenting critique of the Tony 2012 campaign as "spam").  It's rock-star activism. We can turn our rage into action.

It is a good thing that social media can educate us all about the existence of people like Kony, but the reality is that his removal from the battlefield will not end the problems in Uganda. I wish I had answers, but I don't. The country, like many others in Africa, is still struggling with issues that took root decades ago. And once Kony is arrested, how much will the bracelet-wearers do to help those left behind? I hope for the best; but the cynic in me is not convinced.

Foreign policy and international conflicts are rarely simple. But complex is hard to fit into 140 characters. And right now, we need a target for our rage.

There's something about us humans right now that has us mad as hell, and not willing to take it anymore. The Arab Spring and Occupy Wall Street movements of 2011 demonstrated this. Even the Gillard government's fresh attack on Australian billionaires reflects this. People are not happy with the status quo. We're sick of the bad guys, we seem to be frustrated that we're in the 21st century but are still waiting for the enlightened Age of Aquarius (in whatever sense you define 'enlightened'). Diplomatic talk doesn't seem to have gotten us anywhere. And frankly, it's boring, and takes forever.

So it's good to have a real villain like Kony, someone who deserves to bear the brunt of our all-encompassing rage. It's "good" trolling.

But in his absence we can always get riled up at faux-villains like Yumi Stynes. And my fear is one day we might forget the difference.

The Politics of Friendship

There I was, standing outside Government House at Paddington two Sundays ago, waiting for Premier Anna Bligh to kick this state election into gear - when my phone beeped with a text message.

It was an essay of an SMS from a dear friend of mine, and it left me as white as a bleached sheet under a UV light.

I won't include the full details, because I adore this friend of mine and I want to try repair any damage to our longstanding friendship. But in summary, they hurled invectives and vitriol at me, accused me of being jealous of their career/financial success, slammed me as being politically biased and declared they would be defriending me on Facebook and didn't care if we ever spoke again.

Then Anna Bligh drove out of the Government House gates, and I had to go and be a journalist. A biased one, apparently.

What was the cause of this outburst from my friend? What had I done?

Well, friends, I had done what I realise now was Mistake 101 of social media - I got into a political discussion on Facebook.

My friend had updated their status complaining about the private health insurance means test legislation passing through the federal lower house. A few people had weighed in agreeing that hospital waiting lists would blow out under this move. I left a message saying while I accepted that point, it did strike me as problematic that people earning less than the $83, 000 cut-off had to subsidise healthcare for those earning much more. I said that a public health system should cater for anyone who wants to access it, even the very rich. But I added that money gives those people a choice that others (who may work hard also, but just be in professions that earn less) don't have.

At least, that is what I can recall stating. I can no longer access my actual comments because my friend made good on their threat and defriended me.

How do you write the emoticon "sadface" into a blog?

Last week, hours travelling on the campaign bus between destinations afforded me a lot of time to think about what I'd written, and how I'd managed to so badly offend my friend.

To be labelled politically biased upset me greatly. I work very hard to ensure all of my reporting is as objective as possible. I have no party affiliation; and have friends and acquaintances with views across the political spectrum. My father, for instance, would have no problem with me telling you that he is a great admirer of the work of John Winston Howard.

LET'S JUST AGREE WE ALL HATE RAY MARTIN

I get envious of other people's money sometimes, but I'm generally OK with what I've got. I've had a stupidly fortunate life. I know ultimately I've chosen to be in the profession I'm in, even if I could have used my brain and education to get into a more lucrative one.

I've always tried to put truth at the centre of everything - but if I can say one thing about growing older and do more journalism-ing, is that there really is no one particular "truth". Unless it's evidence-based, peer-reviewed, scientific fact - it's often not much more than opinion. 

WHO AM I KIDDING LOOK AT THAT FACE
I COULD NEVER HATE RAY MARTIN

I've always admired my friend's drive and success, and I've never resented them for it. But it seems what I thought was a relatively throwaway remark about the nature of healthcare, was taken as a very personal attack on their life choices and philosophies.

Truth, or opinion? Talk about a political divide.

My friend has yet to respond to any of the messages I have left asking to talk. I hope that they do. I don't think petty politics is worth losing a grand friendship. But maybe that's not my choice anymore.

Am I the only one to experience something like this? Was it my fault - for expressing a view, or for expressing it specifically on Facebook? Can you ever be friends despite your politics? And if you can - how?

The Queen & I

There was no Queen and I.

Knocked back for royal media credentials, my attendance at Brisbane Airport when Her Majesty landed on Monday was from the rather picturesque position of behind the barbed wire.

Before our head of state landed, I did have a brief exchange with Premier Anna Bligh, who wandered over to the part of the fence where my dear friend and fellow journalist Robyn were standing.

"Had to come over and say hello," she chirped, "...because I thought 'Oh look, there's Girl Clumsy in red'."

Now first of all, it was more like a burnt orange, but what the hey, and second...

Shooting the Message

Facebook is the natural home for sharing images with your friends. For many years, this was mostly humorous cat and or dog pictures...

OMG IS THAT KITTEH UNDER THE DOG'S EAR OMG SO CUTE.

...but that's since expanded into a much broader range - from famous quotes all the way to parody famous quotes.

Generally I've been unable to work up enough yellow bile to justify writing about these Facebook fads.

But a recent growing trend has gotten my sphincters all uppity.

Generation Clumsy

It will probably come as no surprise to those aware of my girlish-nerdish-ness that George Negus is a bit of a sex symbol for me.

Yes.

As a teenager, George was only outfoxed in my dreams by Dean Cain and Stuart Littlemore, and seriously, how daggy is that?

Dean Cain. Dear oh dear.

Red-Faced

If I were to show you this picture, of two cosmetic items I have in my bathroom....

And this, a close-up, just so you can really see the labels....

And, given that said products are the same size, with the same packaging...and given that my nickname is Girl Clumsy.... what do you think would happen to me?

Wipe Out

A recent trip to Canberra yielded a number of interesting discoveries.

The first - that 200 denier, fleece-lined stockings are completely worth the $15 price tag, even if only required for three days.

The second - that while $10 honey-lemon chicken tastes pretty nasty, $100 honey-lemon chicken probably wouldn't be much better.

And the third was found in a vending machine inside the women's lavatories in a university pub:

Pernicious

You may remember I recently engaged in a no-holds-barred fight with gravity and grace, and came off second best to a flight of stairs at Parliament House.

What you didn't know was that physical decline was only one element of my physical decline.

The Shout Out

The other night, I was standing with some friends outside the Brisbane Arts Theatre, when we fell victim to a common scenario - being yelled at incoherently from a passing vehicle.

There we were, enjoying a pleasant chat, when we heard "I LOVE YOU!" hurtled in our direction by a young man in a car full of young men. Of course, with the Doppler effect, it had a curious lilt to it.

"...I lovE You"

I responded with a jauntily yelled "Thanks!", then questioned my rather self-entitled assumption that it was aimed at me in the first place. The Wah agreed that they actually aimed the compliment at him, because he was bending over to lock the theatre gate at the time.

Not 30 seconds later, we heard a horn toot and turned to see a cab making its way up Petrie Terrace, full to bursting with a gaggle of young girls. Two of them, clutching cigarettes, dangled out of the front and rear left side windows, and delighted our ears with the following melodious example of high-speed wit:

"...ablurghingahfalamajagawooooh..."

Being the top amateur sleuths that we are, we determined that both carloads of aural assailants were as sloshed as Ipswich during the floods. Although we gave extra props to the girls for getting the cabbie onside enough to toot his horn at us.

Due to the theatre's location up the road from a notorious party precinct and cab rank, this is not an uncommon event. For some reason, people standing on a footpath seems to be like cat nip for drunk people. They are simple overtaken with the intense desire to holler - generally invective - at innocent bystanders, simply for existing.

Now I don't want to take away their fun. I just want to NAME this practice.

Frankly, using the phrase "yelling drunkenly at random strangers from a moving vehicle" gets tiring to say.

"Hooning" means driving fast and recklessly, so it doesn't really suit. "Drunken abuse" is technically correct, but there's a whole other school of random yellings, the kind that often isn't insulting to its recepients, just mystifying.

So the call to arms is to invent or re-purpose a word to succinctly express this particular type of heckling.

The winning entry will have the honour of having their word pass into the GirlClumsy lexicon, and I hope, into wider use.

I will also shout them a DOUBLE PASS to come and see ImproMafia's upcoming production of Agatha Holmes, a murder mystery comedy playing at the Brisbane Arts Theatre from 4 to 13 August. That way, you can stand outside the theatre and experience this joyful part of inner-city life for yourself!

The Sticky Sticker Situation

This evening I finally cracked a charming little prank that has been played out, targeting me, for the best part of this year.

You see, every month or so, I've discovered a sticker on the back of my car. But not just any sticker. Oh no.

This sticker.