My laptop is electrocuting me. Like a toddler in a cinema who screams at random intervals, the tingling shocks I am dealt to the underside of my wrists are sharp and unexpected. Most disappointingly, they seem to be at their worst at their worst when I'm typing. As a writer, I'm often typing. I doubt my childhood teachers would let me re-sit for my Pen Licence, so clearly I'll need a new laptop.
My current 'ride' is a 15 inch 2005 Apple PowerBook G4. Born of the long relationship between Apple and IBM, The G4 was the last of its generation. It saw me through long nights at university and was treated with accordingly shabby treatment. Over many years it developed an impressive array of dents, marks and scratches, which almost certainly resulted in the arrival of the buzzer handshake.
We all know that true love lasts a lifetime. As such, I will desperately grasp for a smooth transition. Despite Windows’ efforts to incorporate the best elements of Apple’s interface – see Gadgets v Widgets – I will not be crossing over to the dark side.
Cheap and cheerful, the MacBook has taken great strides in recent years. Gone are the Polly Pocket fruit-basket looks of the iBook, and that awkward upside-down apple emblazoning the PowerBook made famous by Sex and the City. Clean design, impressive specifications (2GB RAM and and 250GB hard drive), and an attractive price (from $1249) makes the 13-inch Powerbook tempting to those with limited means. A potential downside of this model is the shiny white plastic exterior, which isn't as durable as the MacBook Pro's aluminium case. That, and I don't think it looks pretty enough, which is always an issue for Apple hardcores.
Let’s be honest now. The MacBook Pro is the reason I'm even looking. While I have a perfectly capable desktop PC gathering dust in my study, it is a fat, cranky Shetland pony. I want a racehorse. Available with up to 512GB of storage and 8GB of processing power, the MacBook Pro is an easy frontrunner. 'Racehorses' are expensive, which is the primary factor holding consumers back. The 17 inch model, which features a solid-state hard drive, increased processing power and memory will set you back nearly $6000. Unfortunately, like most people, that is far more than I'm willing to part with.
The smaller 13-inch model starts at $1499. Originally released with the intention of replacing the older MacBook, the market hasn’t followed. For some reason, the older model is still going gangbusters. At just $250 more than a MacBook (with twice the power) I'm baffled as to why the market hasn’t seen sense. With my configuration of choice, including a 500GB hard drive and increased processing coming in at around $2600, I think this is probably the one.
Still...
The iPad is slim. The iPad is light. According to the advertising, I can even use it whilst gliding along on the back of a Vespa. I can pull it out of my handbag and jot down every brilliant thought that goes through my mind – in real time. I can’t resist trying the resident new-fad-on-the-block.
Nursing it in-store this week, I felt as though I was holding an arcane glimpse of the future. I felt old. Testing its functionality, a few things became clear. First, it has no keyboard, making touch-typing a literal impossibility. While it can be fitted with a home keyboard dock it requires mains power which is not Vespa-friendly, or freelance friendly. The touch-screen interface is glossy and slick but it looks like an epic pain in the arse to keep clean. Still, from $629 it's incredibly tempting to be part of a technological phenomenon, and I've been honest enough to tell myself I just want to write stories on my new bit of kit. Considering all this, I figure there is probably a very good reason that most of the journalists and writers I know haven't jumped on the wagon – yet.
In an affront to thriftiness, I will almost certainly end up spending more than I can afford on the 13-inch MacBook Pro. While I'm at it, I will probably fork out for an over-designed laptop sleeve and a series of ridiculously expensive tote-bags to carry it in. Basically, I will have bought the exact equivalent of my old laptop – two inches smaller and half the weight. Now, all I need is the money.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Oh, God.
So many things that surround us are reminders of God. To atheists or agnostics these reminders are cultural representations rather than Jesus-proper, but we are haunted nonetheless - even if the ghost takes the form of another fine piece of pop-ephemera. In this case, the deftly articulated clip for The Killer's 2007 single "When You Were Young".
Beyond connotations of my own youth, the song and clip nods to several of the key roles that religion plays in our day to day lives. The most important, however, is the idea of Jesus being representative of a paragon against which all other men should be measured. This contrasts in with the emotional turmoil faced by the woman at the centre of the story, who has to deal with the reality of her cheating husbands' ways. She's haunted by her warm, idealistic memories of the way things were and it amplifies the confrontation until it's nearly too much to bear.
If we take a walk with the idea of the incomparable paragon into a a foreign land, there are some surprising revelations to be had. I saw Kevin Rudd in the flesh for the first time last month, and not in the way I ever thought I would. There was no press conference to buffer our interaction; we were both in the unique circumstance of being invited to the funeral of someone we didn't even know. My partner is a journo too, and he was on assignment so I tagged along to the funeral of Sapper Jacob Moerland in Gayndah, about three hours drive from Brisbane.
Gayndah was not dissimilar from Hillston or any other small town I'd spent time in growing up. There was one main street, two pubs, a tiny RSL and an all-purpose town hall. In this case the hall also served as the venue for a federally transmitted funeral. After an expectedly gut-wrenching service recounting a good, honest life lost in the name of service the entire town spilled out onto the street past shops closed in mourning. The Prime Minister (at that time), Tony Abbott and most of the town continued down to the RSL for the guard of honour. The first shot slices through the atmosphere and everyone who can't see the guns jumps, the ghost of a bomb on the other side of the world echoes in our ears.
As I walk with only media for company back down the empty street, I think about the shared loss, the number of veterans in the procession, and the long lists of fallen in the memorial park. It's a town with disproportionately high military service, and a keen sense of loss. Moerland was three years my junior, and already in his life he had achieved much with many plans and a large, supportive church community. I felt sad for the community, as the service clung to God. What was clear for me from the way they spoke that what they were really clinging to was Jacob. But then, he doesn't look a thing like Jesus.
Beyond connotations of my own youth, the song and clip nods to several of the key roles that religion plays in our day to day lives. The most important, however, is the idea of Jesus being representative of a paragon against which all other men should be measured. This contrasts in with the emotional turmoil faced by the woman at the centre of the story, who has to deal with the reality of her cheating husbands' ways. She's haunted by her warm, idealistic memories of the way things were and it amplifies the confrontation until it's nearly too much to bear.
If we take a walk with the idea of the incomparable paragon into a a foreign land, there are some surprising revelations to be had. I saw Kevin Rudd in the flesh for the first time last month, and not in the way I ever thought I would. There was no press conference to buffer our interaction; we were both in the unique circumstance of being invited to the funeral of someone we didn't even know. My partner is a journo too, and he was on assignment so I tagged along to the funeral of Sapper Jacob Moerland in Gayndah, about three hours drive from Brisbane.
Gayndah was not dissimilar from Hillston or any other small town I'd spent time in growing up. There was one main street, two pubs, a tiny RSL and an all-purpose town hall. In this case the hall also served as the venue for a federally transmitted funeral. After an expectedly gut-wrenching service recounting a good, honest life lost in the name of service the entire town spilled out onto the street past shops closed in mourning. The Prime Minister (at that time), Tony Abbott and most of the town continued down to the RSL for the guard of honour. The first shot slices through the atmosphere and everyone who can't see the guns jumps, the ghost of a bomb on the other side of the world echoes in our ears.
As I walk with only media for company back down the empty street, I think about the shared loss, the number of veterans in the procession, and the long lists of fallen in the memorial park. It's a town with disproportionately high military service, and a keen sense of loss. Moerland was three years my junior, and already in his life he had achieved much with many plans and a large, supportive church community. I felt sad for the community, as the service clung to God. What was clear for me from the way they spoke that what they were really clinging to was Jacob. But then, he doesn't look a thing like Jesus.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Love in the Time of Coalition
Once upon a time, the world fell in love with two men for very different reasons. And I'm not just talking about the electorate, because clearly the Tory/Lib-Dem government is just as symbolic of deep division as it is of unity. This said, hearts have been set aflutter in burroughs, of a sort, across the Internet. Whether or not the Clegg and Cameron duo that the fandom are 'shipping' are anything like the real deal is yet to be seen.
Since the election the UK media has been having a field day with the whole situation, the moment talks were announced journos were bandying about innuendo and words like 'wooing' comparing Labour and the Tories to suitors, as though building a government had turned into some sort of Pride and Prejudice-esque parlour drama.
Of course, if we're following that route, then Clegg is Lizzy, Brown is Wickham and Cameron is Darcy. For a moment, we think that Lizzy might chose the idealistic, poorer candidate. Then, of course, true colours are revealed and she marries the posh one because she'll get to be the mistress of Pemberly and run things when Darcy's away.
But I digress.
For the uninitiated the idea of fan fiction seems somewhat akin to stalking, or at least a close cousin of defamation. If you haven't heard of it, the principle is pretty simple. Fans of books, films or even real life figures write graphic short stories, poems, or 'one-shots' (first person or short vignettes) about their heroes. To be honest, a lot of the time it's just sex. Puzzling, I know. Why do groups of largely heterosexual women queue up to write about and discuss the idea of Cameron and Clegg being gay for each other (and of course for Britain)?
On its most base level it's a direct counter to the fixation on girl-on-girl porn, albeit of a more cerebral nature. In fact, one of the most striking attributes of fan-written Clameron-fic (in comparison to the majority of sexual material in the marketplace) is that it's generally well written and mixes tax reform with pants action. I know, these observations are valid enough but the question that begs to be asked and answered is WHY WHY WHY? It just seems so WRONG.
Perhaps, yes. The idea of a newly-elected Conservative Prime Minister playing footsie with his liberal deputy may seem crass or even incredibly offensive when taken in the context of the real world and the reputation of these men as husbands, fathers and politicians. However, I would argue that it is the contrasting dynamic between Clegg and Cameron's personalities that has the Guardian and other respected publications making throw-away references to 'commitment issues' and the like.
Call it what you will but as far as I'm concerned it's just good casting: One is Oxford, the other Cambridge. One with any number of royal connections, the other a hardy blend of immigrant stock. On every single layer this pairing plays to a classic star-crossed lovers literary archetype. The key difference in this case is that it's real, and they have to make this relationship work or the country will suffer. The odd couple move into Number 10, if you will.
It's this fertile backdrop that makes for some terrific writing. The majority of it has to be hosted on communities and journals with Livejournal.com as major sites like fanfiction.net will not accept real life pairings. It would be foolhardy, however, to think that the authors of this work honestly believe in the sexual pairings in a real-world sense. They see it for what it is, a once in a lifetime opportunity for satire, smut and common-garden variety fun. Sometimes, people come up with stories out of thin air, other times a series of exchanges will lead to a request. Boris Johnson, Peter Bone and Vince Cable all make cameos, and many an alternate future is speculated upon; some of the best of which include the odd Zombie apocalypse.
So to conclude, I leave you with an amusing request example from an anonymous, unnamed Clameron fic site, and the message that they're not mad, they just know great characterisation when they see it.
| LET'S GET INTERNATIONAL UP IN HERE Clegg/Sarkozy - Nick has to use all his multilingual talents and knack for diplomacy in dealing with Nicolas Sarkozy's epic Napoleon complex. Bonus points if somewhere else Cameron is desperately trying to keep Sylvio Berlusconi off his wife/Theresa May/the entire Cabinet. (Reply to this) (Thread) |
 | Anonymous) 2010-05-17 06:57 am |
| I would so love to write this ... but I don't think I can. I hate Sarkozy with a visceral hatred that is far worse than anything I feel for any British politician (even climate-change denying bone-headed freaks). He tried to throw us (Corsica) out of France (probably because he hated the Napoléon comparison). Clegg and Sarkozy? Just no. Gideon and Sarkozy? May be possible. |
Thursday, May 20, 2010
What do you believe in?
I believe in Chicken. The universe has dropped a number of things at my door this week and it got me to thinking about how we express these beliefs. I had two friends in high school who were quite devout Christians, one of whom preached the faith and another who didn't. I remember going into a lit class and making a comment about the preachy friend when the non-preacher rather surprisingly cut in very sharply "I don't need to tell people what a good Christian I am, I show them."
Of course the idea of leading by example isn't new, but everyone is incredibly busy and the honest truth is you probably don't think to show your friends and even your family what you believe in, and how it effects who you are.
Most of my friends probably have no idea that I've undergone a dramatic amount of change on the culinary front. When I was a student, my approach to food was the same as everyone else. I ate everything I could get my poor hands on; book launch canapés when sneakily eaten in large amounts make a tasty dinner. The free wine helps, too. I was also an insane slave to cafe culture who spent inappropriate amounts of cash on eating out.
Now, things couldn't be more different. Even though I have much less money (I had no idea that could be possible). I've discovered that knowing where my food comes from and that the animal and the farmer are not being shafted by my dinner choice is incredibly satisfying, and not just in a smug-organic-wanker way. It's more about re-jigging the supply chain. We all know that going out for steak is a delicious treat, what we don't know when we hand over our cash to a restauranter is the overheads, the quality of the produce they can afford and so-on.
After working in hospitality as a kitchen-hand, I can tell you that usually the meat is the cheapest they can get, and is generally a product of industrial farming. Sometimes, it's not even the meat they say it is. At my former workplace, for example, the lamb in our Korma was beef and spices were used to make it seem a bit more 'lamb-like'.
So I eat a lot more vegetarian food when I'm out, which is harder in Brisbane than it would have been in Sydney, but still well worth the effort.
I've also realised just how much we undervalue food. When considering environmental factors, this will have to change over the course of the next century. We eat too much meat and too much sugar and it's too easy to get. We've got to redress the balance in our diets, and think about what we put in our mouths. I never thought of myself as spoiled, but I now realise how much information growing up on a farm shoves in your head.
So, to conclude, in the spirit of sharing beliefs and changing the world for the better, I give you a little list. You don't have to agree with what's on it, but by having a skim maybe you'll find out something that could be impactful.
A few things to learn and do:
Of course the idea of leading by example isn't new, but everyone is incredibly busy and the honest truth is you probably don't think to show your friends and even your family what you believe in, and how it effects who you are.
Most of my friends probably have no idea that I've undergone a dramatic amount of change on the culinary front. When I was a student, my approach to food was the same as everyone else. I ate everything I could get my poor hands on; book launch canapés when sneakily eaten in large amounts make a tasty dinner. The free wine helps, too. I was also an insane slave to cafe culture who spent inappropriate amounts of cash on eating out.
Now, things couldn't be more different. Even though I have much less money (I had no idea that could be possible). I've discovered that knowing where my food comes from and that the animal and the farmer are not being shafted by my dinner choice is incredibly satisfying, and not just in a smug-organic-wanker way. It's more about re-jigging the supply chain. We all know that going out for steak is a delicious treat, what we don't know when we hand over our cash to a restauranter is the overheads, the quality of the produce they can afford and so-on.
After working in hospitality as a kitchen-hand, I can tell you that usually the meat is the cheapest they can get, and is generally a product of industrial farming. Sometimes, it's not even the meat they say it is. At my former workplace, for example, the lamb in our Korma was beef and spices were used to make it seem a bit more 'lamb-like'.
So I eat a lot more vegetarian food when I'm out, which is harder in Brisbane than it would have been in Sydney, but still well worth the effort.
I've also realised just how much we undervalue food. When considering environmental factors, this will have to change over the course of the next century. We eat too much meat and too much sugar and it's too easy to get. We've got to redress the balance in our diets, and think about what we put in our mouths. I never thought of myself as spoiled, but I now realise how much information growing up on a farm shoves in your head.
So, to conclude, in the spirit of sharing beliefs and changing the world for the better, I give you a little list. You don't have to agree with what's on it, but by having a skim maybe you'll find out something that could be impactful.
A few things to learn and do:
- Chances are you are in the top 10 percent of the world's earners (check Global Rich List). So your excuses for looking after your fellow creatures are pretty slim. Even if it means cutting down your meat meals to buy ethical, chances are it will taste amazing and make you look forward to eating meat more. Also, by cutting back your weekly meat serves, you'll do the environment a favour.
- Michael Pollan is a smart and useful sage when it comes to being an omnivore in the 21st century. He did an amazing talk, which was screened on ABC1's Big Ideas. Watch it!
- Learn how to roast a chicken. You will have at least three great meals for two people: Roast, Chicken Breast for salads, and a meaty carcass for soup and stock.
- Cooking is not hard. Being afraid of cooking is like being afraid of breathing - it's a natural thing, and you have to eat every day for the rest of your life. Jamie Oliver has the right idea.
- Lastly, to really appreciate how amazing it is that there are so many great things for us to eat, grow something! Even if it's a single carrot or radish, in a little pot, this will absolutely change how you think about all of the time and effort and water that goes into your being well nourished.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Dr. Splendour, or, how I learnt to love saying no.
As is the custom for psuedo-hipsters of my demographic, I rolled out of bed this morning wondering how many nanoseconds it would take for all of the tickets to Splendour in the Grass to snapped up by scalpers. I didn't really think I wanted to go, nay my financial situation rendered it impossible. So I slept in. But I wandered over to the computer at 11:20-something to have a little gander.
To my delight, I stumbled upon a small cash windfall so I jumped in the queue, mainly to prove to myself that I could get tickets if I wanted to. The part I didn't anticipate was that I actually did get through, despite forgetting my moshtix password (it's not really the sort of thing you memorise, like your bank details or your anticipated death date) I made it to the final payment screen. I had the time in the queue to think it over, and then I stopped. And then I looked at the line-up again. And then I closed the window, turned off my monitor and had a shower.
I got on my bicycle, rode to the local monsterplex and splished 70 dollars on seeds, pots, manure and a watering can at the good old mart-of-K, then splashed on enough Ella Baché to last through winter and spring. I planted cress, French radishes, and baby beetroot for salads. There was a profoundly simple feeling of satisfaction from choosing long-term wellbeing over three days of beer-soaked t-shirts and muddy shoes.
I can imagine those of you who missed out sharpening your best carving knife and sizing up my various parts for abandoning the cause (symbolised ironically enough by a sweat-shop sneaker).
I'm sorry. Sometimes saying no to poverty, even at the expense of that most sublime addiction, live music, has a reward. In this case, it's knowing that I'm not defined by my attendance; I don't need to renew my membership to any clubs and the reality is that I'm just not that fussed on the artists for the price. I think I want to use the rest of the money I would have spent going to gigs in Brisbane and getting to know some new talent. Time to find a new dealer.
To my delight, I stumbled upon a small cash windfall so I jumped in the queue, mainly to prove to myself that I could get tickets if I wanted to. The part I didn't anticipate was that I actually did get through, despite forgetting my moshtix password (it's not really the sort of thing you memorise, like your bank details or your anticipated death date) I made it to the final payment screen. I had the time in the queue to think it over, and then I stopped. And then I looked at the line-up again. And then I closed the window, turned off my monitor and had a shower.
I got on my bicycle, rode to the local monsterplex and splished 70 dollars on seeds, pots, manure and a watering can at the good old mart-of-K, then splashed on enough Ella Baché to last through winter and spring. I planted cress, French radishes, and baby beetroot for salads. There was a profoundly simple feeling of satisfaction from choosing long-term wellbeing over three days of beer-soaked t-shirts and muddy shoes.
I can imagine those of you who missed out sharpening your best carving knife and sizing up my various parts for abandoning the cause (symbolised ironically enough by a sweat-shop sneaker).
I'm sorry. Sometimes saying no to poverty, even at the expense of that most sublime addiction, live music, has a reward. In this case, it's knowing that I'm not defined by my attendance; I don't need to renew my membership to any clubs and the reality is that I'm just not that fussed on the artists for the price. I think I want to use the rest of the money I would have spent going to gigs in Brisbane and getting to know some new talent. Time to find a new dealer.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Joyous Minutiae of Relocating Part "!"
I may have just gassed myself with the oven cleaner, so I must be moving house again.
Progress report re: moving to the People's Republic of Queensland
Houses: 0
Shopping Precincts: 1
Boxes Ordered: 38
Boxes Received: 0
Items Packed: 0
Days until move: 8
Hmmm. So the research trip to Brisbane was mixed. Four days with my boyfriend driving around in a Suzuki Swift and sounding our Yawps simultaneously amist cries of "THE PLACES HAVE NO THINGS!!".
Of course, I know thing is completely unfair, and that I'm passing judgement before I spent so much as a minute as an actual resident and that my lifestyle can only change for the better by being uprooted.
I'll never forget Helen Caldicott's lecture for Macquarie's Golden Key Society, and the most remarkable and impactful thing she said. I know I still fail to heed the warning:
and relationships that made me feel dependent, exquisite, fat, valued, and taken for granted - often all at once.
Maybe it's about time I felt like I knew nothing again. The acceptance of ones own ignorance and the willingness to step out into space without knowing what is below is the very definition of a clean slate. A fresh start. Even just saying them in my head helps, I think. I know. I know that this town is haunted and whilst there's so much to discover and enjoy here, it's time to let it go.
I had it out with an old friend, and I realised that they saw the situation in a completely different light to me. Polar opposite. And not small issues either. It was, of course, like anything that confronting incredibly educational. And now, for the first time in my life I feel free, and safe in the knowledge that you can get out there and grab life by the balls. Don't be afraid. Get out there. And, um, move to Queensland.
Progress report re: moving to the People's Republic of Queensland
Houses: 0
Shopping Precincts: 1
Boxes Ordered: 38
Boxes Received: 0
Items Packed: 0
Days until move: 8
Hmmm. So the research trip to Brisbane was mixed. Four days with my boyfriend driving around in a Suzuki Swift and sounding our Yawps simultaneously amist cries of "THE PLACES HAVE NO THINGS!!".
Of course, I know thing is completely unfair, and that I'm passing judgement before I spent so much as a minute as an actual resident and that my lifestyle can only change for the better by being uprooted.
I'll never forget Helen Caldicott's lecture for Macquarie's Golden Key Society, and the most remarkable and impactful thing she said. I know I still fail to heed the warning:
Comfort is dangerous.Of course, she went on to discuss the Western world and our addiction to creature comfort; televisions, nuclear power et al. But this, on reflection, is not just a statement we can apply to physical possessions or those people or events of positive impact. I've come to realise that these three words best describe everything unhealthy about my life right now. I'm sick of the sight of a lot the Sydney has to offer and it's time to step away from all of those old memories
and relationships that made me feel dependent, exquisite, fat, valued, and taken for granted - often all at once.
Maybe it's about time I felt like I knew nothing again. The acceptance of ones own ignorance and the willingness to step out into space without knowing what is below is the very definition of a clean slate. A fresh start. Even just saying them in my head helps, I think. I know. I know that this town is haunted and whilst there's so much to discover and enjoy here, it's time to let it go.
I had it out with an old friend, and I realised that they saw the situation in a completely different light to me. Polar opposite. And not small issues either. It was, of course, like anything that confronting incredibly educational. And now, for the first time in my life I feel free, and safe in the knowledge that you can get out there and grab life by the balls. Don't be afraid. Get out there. And, um, move to Queensland.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Nap time.
I don't know if it's the worst thing about me or not, but when I'm at my mother's house I nap best when watching a British documentary in the end room. I know it's reductive to say "British" rather than giving each country its rightful acknowledgment, but usually it's Simon Schama's History of Britain, so I don't think I'm being too unkind. Other favourites include 1914-18 (released internationally as The Great War and the Shaping of the 20th Century) and The People's Century.
Why, though?
The past is comforting. To know that all of these horrible things happened, to trace their origins and to look at the ramifications for the world we live in now. But why does a grown-up get to sleep better listening to stories of mustard gas and shell-shock?
It makes me feel safe. Mostly because I know I'm not there, because it highlights my own comfort and comparative luxury. Because, I know that tomorrow I will wake up, and everything will probably still be here. Worse things have happened. And so in chaos I find a rare solace; in its distance if nothing else.
Why, though?
The past is comforting. To know that all of these horrible things happened, to trace their origins and to look at the ramifications for the world we live in now. But why does a grown-up get to sleep better listening to stories of mustard gas and shell-shock?
It makes me feel safe. Mostly because I know I'm not there, because it highlights my own comfort and comparative luxury. Because, I know that tomorrow I will wake up, and everything will probably still be here. Worse things have happened. And so in chaos I find a rare solace; in its distance if nothing else.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Erm...A..Uh...Slight Change in Direction
So.
I'm moving to Brisbane.
It's still the sort of thing that I'm struggling to say out loud. I would be struggling to think of it without having a stroke, if Cheap Trick's "Surrender" hadn't been stuck in my head for the past two weeks.
I have started my comprehensive post game analysis of Ricky Gervais' deliciously seditious presentation of the Golden Globes, but funnily enough the idea of shutting everything down, putting it in boxes and moving it 931km away stalled a lot of my higher brain functions.
It's not that I'm morally opposed to Brisbane, I'm just a bit shocked. My boyfriend has been offered an amazing opportunity, and he can't live without me (I guess he's alright) so off I go. In a way it's a blessing, something to force me into new territory and out of this panzer armour I've been lugging around for all this time.
I am sad that Conan is no longer hosting "The Tonight Show". They really didn't give him a chance. This said, if he hadn't been canceled he wouldn't have said this:
I'm moving to Brisbane.
It's still the sort of thing that I'm struggling to say out loud. I would be struggling to think of it without having a stroke, if Cheap Trick's "Surrender" hadn't been stuck in my head for the past two weeks.
I have started my comprehensive post game analysis of Ricky Gervais' deliciously seditious presentation of the Golden Globes, but funnily enough the idea of shutting everything down, putting it in boxes and moving it 931km away stalled a lot of my higher brain functions.
It's not that I'm morally opposed to Brisbane, I'm just a bit shocked. My boyfriend has been offered an amazing opportunity, and he can't live without me (I guess he's alright) so off I go. In a way it's a blessing, something to force me into new territory and out of this panzer armour I've been lugging around for all this time.
I am sad that Conan is no longer hosting "The Tonight Show". They really didn't give him a chance. This said, if he hadn't been canceled he wouldn't have said this:
Please do not be cynical. I hate cynicism. For the record, it's my least favorite quality, it doesn't lead anywhere. Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard and you're kind, amazing things will happen. I’m telling you, amazing things will happen.A golden chestnut to take with you this weekend.
Monday, January 18, 2010
The Cold Open
Everything I said before? It's still true, and I don't want to leave it behind. However, when one has moved on from a particular place in life it's often not good enough just to have a new page, or chapter, or leaf to start with. Sometimes you need the whole damn book. And it's just as well I've gone for a new book, because for the first time in a long time I have a lot to say.
There are so many projects I'm excited about, they don't even really exist yet, but are buzzing around my cerebellum in various states of gestation. Here's a taste:
Biggest, and most overarching is an idea I've had to do with my deeply unsatisfying professional life since finishing uni. I promise it will be more "Down And Out" than "Reality Bites". Don't get me wrong, I love Ethan Hawke - but there's a time and a place.
There's also a fascinating art radio project about Sydney, and how it's like a city of islands, and just an archipelago where the artists don't know about each other and therefore there's no art culture with a sense of the intrinsic value of its product.
A script is in the works, for a different kind of road film (sans existential dilemma and laboured metaphors about escape, hopefully). Very very very early days there.
Also, in more general terms, it will be nice to have a more general space for analysis and expression. Coming up next, a dissection of Ricky Gervais' Golden Globes presentation; and how his scathing disdain has torn a hole in Hollywood artifice (particularly when juxtaposed with James Cameron's industry-aggrandising acceptance for "Avatar").
It occurred to me that whilst I do my best to be real, and whilst I know lots of really genuinely lovely people, there hasn't been much space or much of a forum for analysis or moral questions since I finished. It is as though there is a particular switch that has been turned off inside of us.
There are so many projects I'm excited about, they don't even really exist yet, but are buzzing around my cerebellum in various states of gestation. Here's a taste:
Biggest, and most overarching is an idea I've had to do with my deeply unsatisfying professional life since finishing uni. I promise it will be more "Down And Out" than "Reality Bites". Don't get me wrong, I love Ethan Hawke - but there's a time and a place.
There's also a fascinating art radio project about Sydney, and how it's like a city of islands, and just an archipelago where the artists don't know about each other and therefore there's no art culture with a sense of the intrinsic value of its product.
A script is in the works, for a different kind of road film (sans existential dilemma and laboured metaphors about escape, hopefully). Very very very early days there.
Also, in more general terms, it will be nice to have a more general space for analysis and expression. Coming up next, a dissection of Ricky Gervais' Golden Globes presentation; and how his scathing disdain has torn a hole in Hollywood artifice (particularly when juxtaposed with James Cameron's industry-aggrandising acceptance for "Avatar").
It occurred to me that whilst I do my best to be real, and whilst I know lots of really genuinely lovely people, there hasn't been much space or much of a forum for analysis or moral questions since I finished. It is as though there is a particular switch that has been turned off inside of us.
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