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?

DEAR LORD SAVE US KATE MIDDLETON IS PREGNANT

It's 2:15am, Brisbane time, and I've just watched a flurry of ten tweets pour into my stream breathlessly announcing the news that the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge are expecting their first child.

Love all, if you get my drift.

Doubtless by the time I check back in with Twitter in a few seconds' time, there will be tens of thousands more, as the part of the world not sleeping currently loses its collective shit about a nice young couple doing what many nice young couples do and sprog on.

Now of course, I wish the happy royal couple all the happiness and royalness they could possibly want. Despite my gruff exterior, I actually don't wish harm on any child. Except the brats, of course.

But I seriously don't know how I'm going to cope with the impending bombardment of smug women's magazines spawning week after week of nauseating updates about Kate's health, and well-being, and emotions, and bowel movements, like she's the first person to ever get knocked up by a balding man.

So because I'm up at this silly time writing up a concert review, I decided to take a brief break to write the next six months' worth of headlines for the women's magazines.

Simply read through this list, then gouge your own eyes out with a teaspoon and hide in a cupboard for the next half-year. Then you can resume your life, albeit sightless and agoraphobic, safe in the knowledge you escaped the madness that will engulf you if you even pass by a newsagent's before about August 2013.


KATE'S BABY BLISS!
Finally, she's fulfilling the one thing she MUST do as a princess!

KATE'S MORNING SICKNESS CRISIS!
Poor Kate throwing up every time Prince Andrew visits!

KATE'S PREGNANCY DIARY
Day 103 - "I've reached an almost-normal weight!"

KATE'S LEGACY TO HEIR
Diana would've loved all this if she weren't, you know, still dead!

KATE'S BABY WORKOUT!
Yoga, walks, muay thai kickboxing!

KATE'S PREGNANCY DIARY
Day 145 - It's still f***ing in there!

KATE'S EXIT STRATEGY
Natural like her beautiful hair, or too posh to push? Either way let's judge her!

KATE'S PREGNANCY DIET
Sugar-free quail, eggs Arabica, decoupage of rocket salad - why Kate is eating herself healthy while you pig out on chips you fat non-royal pregnant slag!

KATE NAME DILEMMA
Elizabeth? George? Jayden? Shenneiqua? LeShawn? Hashtag?

KATE'S PREGNANCY DIARY

Day 178 - "I never thought I'd experience the sensation of getting headbutted in the vagina from the inside!"*

KATE'S BABY JOY!

The damn thing came out with all fingers and toes and holy crap it's the future King/Queen of England so let's shove f***ing cameras in its still-raw tiny f***ing face.

KATE'S STRUGGLE TO LOSE BABY WEIGHT

Lose the chub, Your Highness!

KATE'S AMAZING BODY TRANSFORMATION

Just 17 days after giving birth, Kate models for Chanel because she's better than you'll ever be.

KATE WANTS ANOTHER ONE

Too soon? Hell no! Pump out more kids so we cover stories for ever and ever amen.

*Credit that one to an actual, real-life friend of mine who recently gave birth.

In Praise of Losers

We may be farewelling the London Olympics, but we're probably still in for another few weeks of hand-wringing and chest-beating about Australia's "under performance" at the Games. There have already been dozens of stories about the cost of our Olympic campaign, and how the seven or so gold medals we bagged was a disappointment and a betrayal of our sporting kudos, all of them followed by reactionary pieces that say 'Come on, they did better than you could have'.

I found this collection of photographs taken of athletes at the point of defeat, and it got me thinking.

Bear with me while I take you through some rudimentary Googling. From what I can tell, there were seven qualifying rounds of the men's 100m sprint. If each round had eight competitors, that's 56 men who tried to run 100 metres the fastest. Of those, only eight made the final, and only three were "winners". That leaves 53 men who leave London as losers in the 100m sprint.

Multiply those sorts of figures over dozens of events in dozens of athletic disciplines, and you wind up with the biggest, most high-profile gathering of losers in the world. You don't get more accomplished sporting losers. Nobody is as big a loser as these guys. They have achieved a pinnacle in the world of losing by losing at the Olympics.

And bravo to them, I say. For without losing, there can be no winning. The joy engendered in athletes and their home nations upon a victory could not be possible had not a few dozen other people in that same event LOST.

I don't want to try to mollify their pain with platitudes like "You tried your best" and "It still took courage" and "You're an inspiration". Yes, they may be well-adjusted types with realistic expectations. But you can't tell me that most of them didn't have a tiny little part of them hoping, believing that maybe they wouldn't be the loser this time. If they didn't have that little piece of hope, they would've sat at home on the couch and watched the Games on shoddy Channel Nine coverage like the rest of us. So the loss sucks, big time, and I'm not about to take that away from them.

But by and large, most Earth humans will be losers in life on more occasions then they'll be winners. For every job promotion you get, there's someone else doing better than you, or another job you miss out on. For every bit of recognition, there'll be a dozen things nobody noticed or cared that you did. For every feeling of love expressed and received, there'll be more that are denied, suppressed, ignored or rejected. And that's just the small stuff; start thinking in terms of poverty versus wealth and relative security and stability, and you realise Australian athletes, compared to some other nations, are still big winners in some pretty big ways, while the scale of loserdom can be measured in the millions.

At the end of the day, more people LOST at the Olympics than won. This was not a case of "every kid wins a prize". Years of hard work go unrewarded for these athletes. Losers are not bad people. And so that's why I'd like you all to take a moment to salute Australia's losers, because they stepped up and played the role nobody ever wants to play. Let the Australian public give them a ticker tape parade for being brave enough to put themselves on the international stage and lose like a champion.

This theory of loserdom is big. This theory goes right to the top. This theory complements fricking Darwinism. As a mass of humanity, we simply cannot advance without our losers. For what is "natural selection" but a recognition of all the losers that went before us?

Thank you, losers. Yours are the gigantic shoulders upon which our species stands.

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.

Born This Way

I've not spoken much about How To Be A Man since it finished. While everyone who saw seemed to love it, it didn't match the success of its predecessors He Died With a Felafel in His Hand and The Tasmanian Babes Fiasco, and I blamed myself for that. I didn't promote enough, I didn't direct well enough, etcetera, etcetera. I also worried about its reception amongst some key people whose opinion really mattered to me, and I felt like I let some of those people down.

Being a director can be a very lonely business.

Regardless, I'm possibly prouder of HTBAM than the other two shows, because it really was a foray into the unknown and bizarre, and more ambitious in virtually every staging element. I had the most amazing cast, and now that they're all off doing other shows (including The Boys Next Door at the Brisbane Arts Theatre and The Laramie Project at Nash Theatre), I really miss them, and hope that they think of me with something at least approaching fondness.

I'm also proud of HTBAM because I like to think it incorporated some nice messages about acceptance and tolerance and just living to let live.

Take, for example, this fabulous drag 'n' dance number, featuring Gay Jesus and his Naughty Nuns:

Sometimes you just have visions in your head, and when I read the part in Simon Bedak's script about Gay Jesus doing a dance routine, Lady Gaga immediately sprang to mind. I just wanted a beautiful Gay Jesus, wearing a Jesus Christ Superstar shirt, singing about how God makes no mistakes - and I'm so pleased to have put that on the stage.

Last night I became aware via Twitter that Katter's Australian Party has released a rather startling attack advertisement towards Campbell Newman. Frankly this sort of stuff makes me want to thump my head against a wall. I know it's an election, I know Katter's Australian Party is trying to secure votes from disgruntled former National Party voters - but it's sad to see overt homophobia being used like this in 2012. Gay people aren't the end of the world, KAP.

However, it's given me a great reason to bring out another corker of a scene from HTBAM - a cameo from Bob Katter himself. His speech is actually ripped from a media release issued by Katter in August 2011. I tweeted about it when I received it; playwright Simon Bedak immediately demanded I email it to him, and several weeks later it turned up in the HTBAM script.

One of my young actors demanded the role. He's always had a good nose for politics, and a great ability at stage caricature. I think you'll agree it's an uncanny impression, and rightly became one of the most popular bits of the play.

I've always thought humour the best answer to ignorance, so it was a delight to stage some fun satire alongside the giant genital costumes and time-travellers. I'll forever remain indebted to HTBAM for allowing me that opportunity.

Quite... Something.

I saw the QI Live stage show on Monday 31 October.

I left partly delighted, but mostly really cranky.

Here I will try to explain why.

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.

All My Loving

I spent today covering the Ekka, the ten days each year that Brisbane gives over to country life-inspired Stockholm Syndrome.

I say that because over the years I've covered the Ekka enough to develop a sort of perverted fondness for its urban rustic atmosphere and the seething mass of humanity that power-strolls (often with power-strollers) through it. I've come to see it as a great challenge for my immune system and a cautious reminder of the importance of good dental care.

Of course, it helps that I get in on a media pass.

I visited the Ekka as a young 'un a few times. I believe my parents looked upon it with some dread, given the infamous "Ekka bug" that invariably went around each year.

One time I clearly remember my brother throwing up an ice-cream while watching the stunt car show in the main arena. All over the wooden benches it went, like a reverse vanilla volcano. I'm not sure if that was due to illness though, or just overly vigorous licking. Whatever it was, it was those sorts of incidents that made the Ekka a "sometimes" treat.

Another "sometime" treat was of course, the Ekka showbags. My parents had a strict limit on them, being as how they were generally overpriced plastic bags full of plastic crap ...and lollies. My brother and I were allowed two showbags, to a value of $10 in total. Only one of them was allowed to be a lolly/chocolate/snack bag. The other had to be a gimmick bag, one of the themed bags full of crap, based around whatever cartoon or TV show was popular at the time.

Now 1987 was my first visit to the show, and there was only one gimmick showbag I wanted.

Young Talent Time.

Agatha Holmes Ahoy!

Egads! It's been over a week since I posted an entry here at girlclumsy.com

I should really say "It's been over a week since I blogged", but something about the word "blogged" still seems to evoke an unfortunate bowel movement or a gardening mishap.

The week has been extraordinarily busy, covering state parliament at work, and rehearsing and preparing for  Agatha Holmes Ahoy! - ImproMafia's latest season at the Brisbane Arts Theatre.

This is a murder mystery comedy set on the high seas, in which the audience determines the murderer by ballot every night. We also use their suggestions for the murder weapon and a tell-tale clue, and it's up to Britain's sharpest detective mind to solve the whodunnit.

Here's a clip from our opening night on Thursday - "The Reason for the Rhyme". This gives you a good idea of what an insanely brilliant (or possibly just insane) sleuth Agatha Holmes is.

I play Lady Augusta Wellesley, an ice-cold socialite of aristocratic heritage with a tongue sharper than her great-great-uncle Arthur's battle sword. She's a lot of fun to portray - and hell, who doesn't love dressing up?

Picture courtesy of the brilliant Kris Anderson.

I do hope those of you living in or near Brisbane will come and check out the show - we're playing until Saturday 13 August.

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.

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.

Booked Out

Books! I love books! There's just nothing like the smell of a book, is there? The feel of a freshly opened cover, ink wafting off the pages, the touch of dead tree - it just makes me want to curl up with a hot cup of tea and let my imagination....

...oh, I can't go on.

I'm getting right jack of sentiments like the above. They've been cropping up for years, but with the rise in eBooks and eReaders, they've become the go-to argument for every neo-Luddite who fancies themselves a literary Imelda Marcos.

"This one has a surprise twist ending." 

I'm so over the overt love of books that I'm almost over books themselves.

Randomousness

Some random photos:

The Bendable Candle Lighter is apparently "Great For Candles!" By the way, did I tell you about my "Waterproof Bear-Hurling Trebuchet"? It's "Great for Bear-Hurling!".

What the f*** is this bulls**t? Mars Caramel? What do Mars take us for, fools?

It's pretty simple. Your Mars Bar is made up of THREE components - a crispy chocolate coating, a delicate layer of caramel, nestled above a bed of delicious nougat. The Mars Bar REMOVES THE NOUGAT. I'm sorry Mars, you just can't DO that sort of s*** and still call it a Mars Bar. Would Christians like it if you deep-sixed the Holy Spirit then insisted the God/Jesus combo was still a Holy Trinity? NO THEY WOULD NOT.

And this is a wider message for chocolate companies. Stop muddying the f***ing waters already. Isn't it enough that we have Cadbury blocks in every conceivable nut and filling combination - do we have to have them as ice-cream versions as well? Isn't it enough that we get our bubbles of minty Aero goodness from a block of the stuff, rather than a flimsy dairy dessert? I CAN'T COPE WITH ALL THIS MODERNISATION.

I thought I should try oatmeal. You know, porridge. You can see for yourself above how humourous The Wah found the whole idea.

I tried to microwave the porridge twice last week at work; on both days it exploded in a gooey milky mess.

I was following the instructions, I don't know what I did wrong. Maybe the microwave was too powerful. Maybe the milk was laced with nitro-glycerin. Damn explosive-uddered dairy cows.

The Voice of a True Aberration

Many of you will remember my devotion to Pepsi Max; a love so enduring that when I die, I expect my remains to be pickled in a large vat of the stuff, Nelson-style.

Late last year, Pepsi began a promotion called "Summer Rewind". It offered free retro Pepsi t-shirts in a number of varieties - all you had to do was collect specially marked labels. Some were worth 1 point, some 2, depending on the size of the bottle, and you needed 10 to get a shirt. The best part was free delivery - you simply entered your codes into the website, clicked on the style you wanted, then sat back and wait for awesome commercialised vintage fashion to hit your letterbox.

Pepsi Max is our beverage of choice here at Chez Clumsy, so we made sure to buy specially marked bottles when we could, and I began collecting the labels.

It didn't take long to accumulate points, and through December, January and early February, Pepsi retro t-shirts began turning up regularly at Chez Clumsy. Pretty decent shirts too; nice cotton, with good quality screen-printing. I even "girlied" up a few - slicing off necklines and roughly cropping sleeves to make them more "stylish" (if you accept that unhemmed and uneven edges can be stylish).

At some point, the shirts ran out, but Pepsi obviously realised they were onto a popular promotion. People were happy to walk around advertising their product - as long as the garment doing the work was kind of trendy and old skool. So they restocked, and my efforts continued.

I *may* have gotten a little excited.

But then, a couple of weeks ago, I received a large envelope from Pepsi DEMANDING my labels and proof of purchase receipts. Turns out I'd ordered enough shirts to be seen as suspicious - or at least just a tad on the greedy side. They didn't accuse me of anything directly - but the meaning was clear: "You've had your share - now come up with the proof you really did buy all that carbonated cola or we'll think you're running a dodgy eBay resale scam."

But what I don't understand is how you're expected to follow their "rules" - which involve keeping all the labels AND your proof of purchase receipts. I do in fact have a bunch of the labels all rubber-banded together in a small box. But receipts? Ha! OK, I probably could've held on to supermarket dockets, but you tell me what little cafe or newsagent or foodcourt kebab shop gives you a receipt for your 600ml bottle?

So the fine print fascists at Pepsi are now holding my shirts, and as I'm unlikely to be able to send them receipts (OK, I've lost the reply paid envelope they sent me), will redistribute them to other, more conscientious consumers.

I mean, really. What has the world come to when a girl can't collect a Smorg-like amount of t-shirt treasure just so she can cut them up willy-nilly? I mean, didn't someone fight a war about something at some point?

If it wasn't for the fact I'm addicted to Pepsi Max, I'd seriously consider boycotting it.

Scratched & Recycled

It started with Havock tweeting me late this afternoon with: "Was that you on the Scratchy bit on the news?"

Now those of you who know Havock might have been as surprised as I was by the absence of invectives such as FKN and MUPPETS. I didn't really understand what he was getting at, even when he offered the follow-up tweet:

"I swear the chickie babe looked like you on TV before, ya got a twin! lol"

I thought perhaps Havock had just spliced the mainbrace one too many times, but about an hour later, I received a text message from my friend Clare, exclaiming that she'd just seen me on Today Tonight talking about scratchies.

It turns out the good folk at Channel Seven's flagship current affairs program had decided to do a story on instant scratchie winners, and had included me as one of the "talent".

Only thing is - I did that interview FOUR years ago. Four! Early 2007. I remember because I'd not long been back in the country after a foreign sojourn. It explains the dodgy short haircut I was growing out:

Thanks to @EvanOnTheGC for
capturing this awful, awful freezeframe.

What a completely terrible head that is. That's just appalling. Look - here's a GIF I made of me pulling a series of grimaces which are STILL more attractive than the head featured on national television this evening:

I'm just a bit confused about the situation. Yes, I won some money on a scratchie. It was a fair while ago - before I even started this website. Is a four-year-old interview about something that happened seven years ago still relevant? Still, you know, a current affair?

I don't want to slag my fellow media professionals too much, because I honestly believe shows like A Current Affair and Today Tonight have their place in the TV line-up. Sure, watching them is probably like having sex with a priest - a bit wrong and not for the under 16s - but they provide a service. I mean, you can't go getting all your shopping advice from the Brand Power lady.

See, see! I said I wouldn't slag them off, and I just did it anyway. Naughty Clumsy.

Let's face it, maybe it's a situation where recycling old interviews is an efficient use of resources.

I mean, winning money on a scratchie is p-r-e-t-t-y much how you'd imagine it. There's the "BULLSHIT NO WAY" factor, then the "THIS IS F***ING AWESOME" high, then the "OMG I CAN BUY EVERYTHING" dizziness, then the "OH NO WAIT I CAN'T REALLY BUY EVERYTHING" comedown, then the "I SHOULD REALLY BE SENSIBLE ABOUT THIS" speech you give yourself after your Dad insists on going to the bank manager THAT AFTERNOON to tie up the money in some sort of digital Fort Knox to STOP YOU GETTING AT IT YOU IRRESPONSIBLE DAUGHTER AND ALSO YOU SHOULD GO TO BED EARLIER AND CLEAN UP MORE.

Well, that was certainly MY experience.

My point is - and I do have one, albeit a loose, esoteric one - is that I'm still alive, y'know? You could come and interview me now, Today Tonight. At the VERY least, I'd have nicer hair. Surely that would be better for your ratings?

#30before30: Become a Minor Hate Figure

This is a completely accidental #30before30 post.  I didn’t mean to become a minor hate figure.  But it turns out if you slag off open mic stand-up comedians, these things can happen.

My article about attempting stand-up at a tough pub room was certainly insensitive in parts. Perhaps describing some of the comics as “relentlessly awful” was a tad on the harsh side.  I was fully prepared to cop a bit of stick for that. Putting myself in the comics’ shoes, I could see how I might come across as some hoity-toity media type who was just toying with an entertainment form to which they’ve dedicated a large chunk of blood, sweat and tears. (Hell maybe I am that. Just wish I had the money and clothes to match).

What I didn’t anticipate was a firestorm of epic proportions engulfing my humble little corner of cyberspace. I understand the principles behind a “flame war” – basically, people getting angry and hurling poorly spelt insults at each other on the internet – but had never actually been in one, let alone caused one.

On Festivals & Being Funny

So the Brisbane Comedy Festival is now up and running over at the Brisbane Powerhouse.

I've been pondering for a while now whether to go full rant about this damn thing.

Feminist?

I generally like to consider myself one of those badge-wearing modern feminists who find they can get about their day fighting the good fight against the fascist bastard patriarchy while still brandishing perfect GHD curls.

But how can a committed pinko commie femmo like myself be similarly unmoved by an offensive T-shirt, amused by moves to put virginity on the agenda, and yet outraged by a political response to said virginity crisis?

Let me explain.

Jingo

I walked out to grab my cab this morning and the receptionist said "Good luck!". I thought for a moment she was wishing me well in my journalistic duties; until I saw my driver was a Sikh. I think perhaps she was indulging in some casual racism about Indian taxi drivers. Because, you know, THEY CAN'T DRIVE PROPERLY AND STUFF.

By the time I got back to the office, I'd had THREE Indian taxi drivers. All three knew their way around town perfectly. All three were polite and quiet. I attempted to give one of them a direction. He pointed out a better route.  I attempted to point out a shortcut to another. He already knew it.

Can all those Facebook groups about "No more Indian cab drivers!" be shut down now please? I know it's just my experience, but they're making me uncomfortable.

Meanwhile the Queensland Police Union has called for heavier penalties for louts who have a skinful on Australia Day, drape themselves in Australian flags, then go around causing trouble. Jingoism draped long and flowing, to hide the racism. Billy Hughes and PigIron Bob Menzies are dancing a merry jig in hell.

The authorities call for EVERYONE to "respect the flag".

The flag is the flag! We must respect what it means!

In that case, can we stop importing thirty cent Chinese plastic knock-offs to attach to the driver and passenger side windows of our Falcons and Commodores?

'Cause when I think of all those ANZACs who lost their guts in a hail of Turkish gunfire on some grizzly dawn, I doubt they thought they were fighting for the right of some bogan Normanby punters to flutter strips of blue plastic from their vehicles as they slag off Indian cab drivers for TAKING THEIR JOBS.

I mean, the Model T Ford had barely even been invented.

Now it's a free society. I know you have the right to your cheap-ass bogan car decals. GO RIGHT AHEAD.

But then you can't judge me if I consider a well-made flag, constructed of some sort of FABRIC, and flown from a FLAGPOLE, as being slightly more worthy than your Crazy Clark's half-assed attempt at patriotism.

And, truth be told, you can't judge me if I decide I don't actually care one way or another about your version of "respecting the flag".

Last year a massive flag measuring 10 metres across was stolen from outside a business on Brisbane's southside.

Un-Australian! they bayed.

Un-Australian? UN-AUSTRALIAN?!?!?

"Modern" Australia, the one with us whiteys in it, was founded by a bunch of crooks and thieves, transported for life for nicking a slice of bread Blighty-side.

Stealing a gigantic Australian flag on Australia Day is possible THE most Australian thing you could do.

That's something I can respect.

The Most Terrifying Words

Channel 10 spent most of this week advertising its Friday night movie feature - The First Wives Club.

It seems to be a regular in the Channel 10 line-up - I wouldn't have thought the station's sub-35 demographic really went for menopausal faux-feminist feel-good flicks, but hey, maybe that's why I'm not a TV programmer.

What got my screeching banshee back hairs right up was the phrase they used at the start of the promo: