What do you think, David?

Had to - under extreme duress of course - review a few things for the entertainment section tonight.


First up is a reissue of this doco called The Thin Blue Line, which incidentally was one of the ONLY films I didn't fall asleep in during my Introduction To Cinema class at Uni.





"Errol Morris's groundbreaking 1988 documentary presents the case of Randal Adams, a drifter sentenced to death for the murder of a police officer.

A cast of real life players tell the meticulously plotted story, and Morris intercuts with reenactments, noirish close-ups and a decent pinch of Hitchcock.

The Thin Blue Line was intrumental in Adams' release from prison in 1989 and set a new benchmark for documentary film-making.

Neighsayers claim it's manipulative, and it is, but still deserves its reputation as modern classic."

FOUR STARS


>>>>>

Next, a CD - Carla Bruni. Loved this one.





"A former supermodel and one-time muse of Donald Trump sings the poetry of history's great stylists, from W.B. Yeats to Dorothy Parker.

On paper this should be flung directly into the 'embarassing career moves' bin, with Naomi Campell's 1994 debut 'Baby Woman'.

But Carla Bruni is no ordinary model dabbling in music for the cash.

The divine Italian/French beauty released her first album 'Quelqu'un m'a dit' (Someone Told Me) to amorous acclaim in 2005, then shifted 2 million copies of the thing.

Here, she's still in fine form, caressing the lyrics into syrupy, thinking-persons lounge music.

Like a blast of languid Parisian sunshine, 'No Promises' is ambitious, intelligent and effortless."

FOUR STARS


>>>>>>


Lastly, a real rockabilly number, a live album called Los Valientes Del Mundo from The Black Lips.

Never heard of em!!!





This live album was recorded one tequila stained evening in Tijuana, Mexico.

It sounds like these NYC groovers and their woozy audience all swallowed the worm.

Represented by cool-for-school indie mag VICE's new label, The Black Lips fancy themselves as breakneck pioneers in a world of overproduced slick rock.

And they might be onto something.

With an average age of just 22 years, these boys have been slumming around the underground scene for years, booking themselves and supporting the likes of the Yeah Yeah Yeah's.

What ensues is a slice of shambolic, psychedlic flower-punk amped off the dial.

Coming soon to a hipster houseparty near you."


THREE-AND-A-HALF STARS





(PS: I don't REALLY know what I'm talking about)

Coughing up Blog

I have to confess that this blog was inspired by the similar musings of my friend Nick, who is over in New York on a year's exchange with a design company.

This is Nick.




I can't believe the boy is only 20. He is a bit ahead of his time.

I first met him when he snuck a few of us in to see Martha Wainwright play at the Corner by drawing EXACT replicas of the pass-out stamp on our arms. It worked.

He is MADE for NYC. And he makes me want to live there more than ever.

Check out his work:

http://nicklemessurier.blogspot.com/


>>>>>>>>>


Another friend of mine, Chad, has a blog which is great.

Chad and I lived together in Sydney and he's over in London working as a video producer.





Chad is an enthusiastic...neigh, OBSESSIVE collator of pop culture. From Kelly Clarkson to Chicago: he hoovers up the top 40. And he reads alot. Of comics. And he doesnt mind a bit of YouTube. Or a sly boy band.

Then he tells people all about it.

http://lookwhatchaddid.blogspot.com



Do it!

Like A Rolling 'Stone

Allow me to introduce:

The enigmatic, the seductive...

Amanda Vanstone.

Best Dressed Woman in politics.























Just goes to show what a woman can do with a flattering skirt, a string of pearls and jaunty blouse.

More Than You Wanted To Know

At work there are specific cases which become 'de rigeur' and are intensely followed by the paper and the website.

It's pretty essential that we find a photograph to go with each story, for typesetting and colour purposes, and sometimes this requires a little creative thinking.

'Man sues drug company for having a non stop erection for three years' is a made-to-measure online story, but you cant very well have an accompanying thumnail which demonstrates the said affliction. So you go for something like this:





To find the pictures you hit a program called NewsImage, which is like Google Images gone troppo. Type in anything, anything, and a ream of photos come splurging onto the screen. 'Paris+Hilton' turns out something like 48,000 matches - not just because of the tacky broad of the same name but also because of the city, the hotel, etc.




(I actually quite like her)


But its not all lithe blondes and footy players. Sometimes, you're scouring the system for photos you'd rather not look at, know about, think about.

A case that has come up in the past week is the reappearence in court of this notorious SA paedophile by the name of Bevan Spencer von Einem. He sounds like an Austrian composer, but no. He is not.

Sometime in the 80's, Von Einem was sentenced to three decades in prison for kidnapping the 15-year-old son of a famous local newsreader. Von Einem tortured, drugged, raped and held the boy captive for five weeks, before murdering him and dumping his body in the Adelaide Hills. Seriously. Fucked. Up.




The newsreader is still on air: he's like the Peter Hitchener of Adelaide. But he is discreetly put on leave every time Von Einem story bobs to the surface, to save him reading headlines about the man who no doubt ruined his life.

So Von Einem is back in the news after being caught with a stack of descriptive stories he'd written about young kids for his own gratification. It has caused an almighty stir: understandably anything to do with this man sets a ripple of unrest through the community. But it is still to be argued that hand written sheets of paper count as child porn.

Another big case featured almost daily is the Stuart McDonald trial. McDonald alledgedly infected 12 Adelaide men with HIV in a a string of gaydar internet hook up's. According to police, he knowingly infected the men and his extreme narcissism means he has no remource for his actions.

Whether this is guilty or not doesnt really diminish the fact that what we have here is a good old fashioned witch hunt, and the story sells papers. Lots of them.

There is only one photo of McDonald in existance, theres no choice but to run it. It's seared onto my memory.





Thats the trouble. Sometimes, you just don't want to know. Maybe thats why journalists have the whole a hard nosed, boozing, cynical reputation. It's all you can do but sigh, or shrug, or laugh - then move on to another Paris Hilton story.

For a city with a relatively modest population, Adelaide certainly has its share of the macabre. Apparently Salman Rushdie came to research a book here years ago, and said it had the strangest energy of any city he had ever been to.

Some think its the Aboriginal spirits still turbulating ancient unrest. Others reckon Australias baddest crims usually escape to the bleak wilds of northern South Australia to evade capture - making Adelaide the closest metro to prey upon.

In any case, an awful lot of random shit goes on in Adelaide.

Now I need to have a shower.

The D List

Look at this website!

It'll make your day.

www.dlisted.com

Seriously bitchy. Celeb trashing. Damn hilarious.

For people who take perverse schadenfreud in watching Britney Spears crumble into a cautionary tale.

Annie and the Gap

This is my best mate Anna.



She is currently jaunting around the world, living in London and living it up.



>> she has something of a sunglasses fetish <<


I miss her like an amputated limb right now!

She is pure, unadulterated, unalloyed, untouched gold.

Right before she left, a group of us went to Halls Gap, near the Grampians for New Years Eve.



Check out the shotgun smiles!

It was more fun that really should be allowed... Everyone seemed to click, and we lazed around, ate food, drank wine, smoked cigarettes and cavorted in some hilarious costumes.




>> scott + me <<




>> charlotte + pleasure suit <<

And hats...



>> joseph <<



>> jules <<

I sortof get a strange melancholy looking at the photos...something behind the sternum.

It was a flash, just two days, then over. But I hope I can cobble together the memory when Im toothless and senile.

And I hope I can still call Anna and say:

'Remember that NYE we all got carpet burn from re-enacting Kylie Minogue's 'Slow' video clip at that house in the Grampians?'

Knees 'O Fury

Let me show you 'round a bit!

This is a little alleyway I walk down on my way to work:




And this is a particularly eye catching vehicle I spotted beside the road.




Beats a bumper sticker.


And this is the dashing window display of a newsagent. Love the Bee-boy.




(The headline is vintage 'Tiser)


Bloody pissed off I missed this:





Meet Bec and Geoff...



They took me 'round town on Sunday night to drink my weight in Coopers and listen to cracking 90's music at a pub called the Crown and Sceptre.

90's music like:



This song, which was actually the VERY FIRST CD I EVER OWNED. A single. Christmas '91. Given in conjunction with a giant tub of 300 gumballs called 'Bloodsuckers', which made the chewer look as if he/she had been drinking red paint all afternoon.

Picture me, aged nine, frothing fake blood on the carpet, whiplashing my head 'round to this little tune!!

'I got the ke-ey. I got the sec-re-ee-eet. I got the key to a-nother way!'

Cred.

Here's a closer look of the wall in the background up there:




The photo was taken at 2am, in a strip lit Kebab store on Rundle St. It's a fine establishment, of age-old traditions. One of which is take a snap of their customers and slap it on the wall above the deep frier.

If youve ever got drunk and come a cropper with some bad food in SA, you'll know its not a Kebab at all. Its a Yeeros.

South Aussies would whither at you if you didnt say Yeeros when describing a pancake of bread piled with congealed meat, white onion rings and toxic garlic sauce. It's not a Souva. Not a 'Bab. Not a Giros. It's a Yeeeeeeeeeeeros.

They also call telegraph poles 'stobie' polls.

A schooner is a pot, and a pint is a schooner.

And its definately dar-nce, not daiy-nce. Same deal for chance. Prance. Stance. France.

Nutters.

But they do a good gastropub.

Like this one, the Victory. Looks like a tin shed. Youd probably drive straight past it. But it is OFFICIALLY the home of the best. THE BEST. Chick Shnit Parma. Of all time. From someone who KNOWS.

Nice view, too.

A-K, L-Z

My new bible:




Basically it's THE GUIDE for all News Limited publications. It has everything in it: which witch is which, 'decamp' or 'run away', trainwreck or train-wreck or train wreck or Train wreck or Train Wreck.

It's stirring bedtime reading. My favorite (or is that favourite?) section is 'difficult names'.

A veritabe 'where are they now?' jackdraw.

So, for you, a sample:


ARQUETTE, Courtney Cox
BRAAKENSIEK, Annalise
CORBY, Schapelle
DiPIERDOMENICO, Robert
ELMALOGLOU, Rebekah
FURNESS, Deborra-lee
GOLDSMITH, Tottie
HASSELHOFF, David
IGLESIAS, Enrique
JANSZ, Geoff
KENIEVAL, Evel
LITTLE, Jeanne
MADIKEIZELA-MANDELA, Winnie
NOSSAL, Professor Sir Gustav
OTIS, Carre
PHILIPPOUSSIS, Mark
QUEEN, The
RUSSELL-CLARKE, Peter
SZUBANSKI, Magda
TAYLOR, Jo Beth
UTZON, Joern
VAN DEN HOOGENBAND, Pieter
WEAVER, Jacki
XIAOPING, Deng
YUNUPINGU, Mandawuy
ZAETTA, Tania


Just so you know...

Do Not Pass Go

Here's work, by night.



Its a hustling place to be, and Im not afraid to admit it's somewhat intimidating when the lift dings and you have to strut through the honeycomb of cubicles, head held high. Past sport, past business, politics, courts, police, then finally the online desk right outside the editors office.

The editor refuses to meet me until I have been in the job at least three weeks as the last new recruit from the east coast left after just four weeks. That was immediately before I arrived. People are very burnt by that, it seems. 'Adelaide wasnt good enough for him,' they say, the bitterness gurgling like bile at the back of the throat.

Ding!



As I have already mentioned, one of my jobs is to sift through the readers comments and approve which ones will be posted on the site, and which ones will become cyber trash. There are a surprising number of people chucking in their two cents on every concievable issue. Really igniting public debate are the twin spheres of politics and sport. The passion is electric!

'I reckon Jonesy's bringing the team down with his under-par ball handling skills and what he did on the weekend against the Dockers at the 27th minute of the third quarter when the ball was bounced at the 50 and Macca went in for a speckie and the ref gave the penalty he proved he should NOT be wearing the number 56 and it made me ashamed to call myself a Port supporter and ashamed to be FROM ADELAIDE!!!! SOMETHING MUST BE DONE!!!!'

Basically anyone gets a guernsy so long as they arent racist, sexist, defamatory, homophobic or just plain illiterate. This obviously cuts a significant number of commenters out of the race. Some of the spelling permutations are quite hilarious, way beyond mere typos.

Last week it was announced that Monopoly are producing an updated Australian board, one with Ayers Rock and Flinders St Station and all that jazz. The deliniation of colours was decided by a national intenet vote. Blue, the classic Mayfair/Park Lane spot at the top of the walk was taken out by The Barossa Valley and Adelaide. Dubious to say the least. Darling Point, anyone?

So when an anonymous comment came through last week claiming it was all a hoax orchestrated by some proud (and geeky) Adelaideans who rigged the whole show with some nifty software, I raised the alarm. Outrageous!!!

It ended up being FRONT PAGE NEWS and although I was without byline, Ill be taking that one to the grave, thankyou. My first scoop!!

Look mum, no hands!!!

No Relation

Arts About

There's some delightful street art in Rundle Mall... have a look at this cheeky swine:







These little piles of real coins are scattered along the footpath, firmly inlaid. Mostly outside phoneboxes. Genius!!







And this sign has to be a Tracy Emin...

The Butterfly Effect

I had my very first by-line today.






June 05, 2007 12:34pm

"WHEN A butterfly flaps its wings in Brazil, or someone buys goats cheese in Gouger St, will that cause a tornado in Africa?

Organic grocer Angela Trevor knew there was something in the air when she woke up this morning.

"Mum rang me and said do you realise today is the fifth of the sixth, 2007?" Angela says. "I thought: 'I’m going to sell something at 12.34pm for exactly $8.90."

As you do.

"1, 2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,0! How special is that?"

Like the Halley’s Comet of the date world, such an anomaly hits the calendar once in a lifetime.

Cath Jenner and her daughter India unwittingly became part of this numerical one-off when Angela sold her a slab of Kangaroo Island Feta in her Gouger St store at 12.34pm today.

‘I'm not very good with numbers,' says Cath. 'But India was born on the 07/04/07, so I think that means she’s going to be a world traveller.'

"Numbers are fascinating," says Angela, a 43 year-old from Hawthorn Vale.

"I always get a thrill when these coincidences happen! "

And while the stars (or, at least, numbers) are aligning, what could this mean?

‘It’s got to mean something!’ says Angela.

Cue Twilight Zone music."


>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<

So thats the story. In its entirety. Thank God I've got that out of the way.

I got back to the office, and posted my copy. Very soon I was fielding reader comments with slightly embarassed interest. Which meant people out there, at their desks, in their offices, were actually reading it.


What the?? Can someone please explain to me what the hell Michael Harry is on about??
Posted by: Tim of adelaide

is this a news item or an add?
Posted by: h.grech of gawler

this is the most biggest crap ive read in a long time, apart from paris going to jail, surely we can talk about something else
Posted by: Dylan of Adelaide

How excitement!
Posted by: Care factor 0 of Adelaide

What about 1.23 on the 4th of May 06/ 7 minutes to half past 1 (1/2/3/4/5/6/7) with 8 idiots having worked out this stupid crap and 9 is the number of digits we have now, 10 comes next so now i have ten numbers and then the clock ticks onto 11:12 so thats two more numbers and i'll stop there coz 13 is an unlucky number! Now that will never happen again! :D
Posted by: Matt of Modbury

this does not make any sence at all, stop wasting eveyones time writing crap like this, what a waste of paper.
Posted by: nick humphies of adelaide

What about 12:34 on the 5th of the June, 1978. That would make it 12:34 5/6/78. Not that amazing...
Posted by: KG of Adelaide 1:35pm today

>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<

Throughout this, I have half a lazy eye on the plasma TV looping SkyNews above my desk. Then, a flash of red on the screen: BREAKING NEWS.

An uneasy energy hit the newsroom as details of the Kerang train tragedy broke. At first, nothing, no details, just hazy sketches. Four people confirmed dead after a semi trailer smacked into a busy commuter train on a lonely country intersection.

We furiously monitored the wires: raw news text from around the world which flows onto our computer screens. We refreshed icons in flighty staccato, seeing what the other news sites were doing. Then things pulled into murky focus. Not four people dead, but ten, and scores more injured.

SkyNews found a shaken passenger and wheeled her out for an exclusive eyewitness account. Then the photos poured in, mangled images of shredded trains, recorded from the TV at first, then clearer shots of stretchered patients from scattered freelancers.

When it happens, it really happens, there's no warning. It gets you wondering about those butterfly wings.

Makes you think, it's got to mean something.

Hasn't it?

I am a summer soup

I saw this ridiculous show on DVD the other day, and it was one of those: 'where have you been all my life??' moments.

It's called The Might Boosh, and it's a BBC comedy series from a few years ago. Like its wildly more successfull (and coherant) sibling, Little Britain, The Mighty Boosh stars two random English fellows who dress in outrageous costumes and roll through their skits dragging a trailer of delightful catch phrases.

But Boosh is waaaaay more random the Little Britain. It's basically about two friends - Howard Moon and Vince Noir - who go on magical adventures to wacky lands in frou frou costumes singing songs and making idiots of each other.

The first series is based around a zoo called Bob Fossil's Funworld ("Where fun, plus world, equals... Worldfun").

Seriously trippy. Here's a clip:

Rock And Roll

I feel a bit sick.

Across the road from my hotel is a confectionary pusher called the Cold Rock Ice Creamery.





It's like a voluptuous McFlurry station, where an array of candies and wickedness are splayed under a glass refrigerating unit next to several barrels of icecream.

The flavour of one's choosing gets flung onto a giant slab freezer like a ball of dough in a pizza shop. The teen-queen staff then smoosh whatever the hell you want into the icecream with two angry steel spatulas. Like samarai sushi chefs.

I got EVERYTHING smooshed into this not-so-little cup. MnMs. Cookie Dough. Peanuts. Caramel. Diabetes.

I cant even type anymore...

F*** you I will do what you tell me

I got up at 8am this morning and as predicted I wasnt throwing back the sheets to with quite so much gusto as Monday. A week is a long time in journalism.

Working in TV, you can wear WHATEVER you want. Like, turn up to work in bermuda shorts and trashed converse and a mesh vest and you'll get promoted. This was one of the most appealing things about the career path. For someone who abhors shaving as much as I, a lax grooming policy is essential.

Not so in Adelaide. Im in the middle of the corporate district in one of the slickest offices in town. While the fashions might not be experimental, they are certainly always nice. And safe.

I only own 5 shirts. And a single pair of suit pants. 'Slacks.' Most of my jackets have chewing gum in the elbows from leaning against the bar. Im hoping I can find a 24 hour dry cleaner on the weekend otherwise I'm set to wallow in stickyness.

So it's 8.05am by now, and Im grubbing the sleep from my eyes, staring at the crisp rainbow pile of t-shirts I've lovingly accrued over the years. Normally they're my uniform. I fingered the top one lightly... 'Maybe I can just see if I can get away with wearing this today...' I thought, reaching for a felt cardigan to go over the top. 'No one will even notice.'





I arrived at work by 8.55-ish. Whistling a small tune I dived into my swivel chair and switched on my computer. 'Hows everything?' I asked the online team, who work in a huddled module of facing cubicles. A question with particular pertinence. It doent mean: 'how did you sleep?', it means: 'Any high school massacres yet?'.

'Did you know you're meeting the editor today?' asked my boss, barely glancing from his computer screen.
'Errrrr...' I said.
'Have you got a shirt and tie in that bag?'
'Errrrr...'
He looked at his watch. 'You have half an hour. I'd prefer you'd be half an hour late than make a bad impression.'

Sheepishly I picked up my scarf and iPod and security pass and shuffled back to the elevator, out for a duck.

Take two:





I tore back towards work, 9.25am. Lace ups pounding the pavement, headphones in my ears. I was embarassed and annoyed but I knew I'd made the wrong call. 'Dress for who you want to be,' is the old corporate adage. Never get caught with yoghurt on your pants and a fraying tie, cos you never know where the day will take you.

iPod on shuffle, this song flicked on, and as I walked down Waymouth St, there was no one, but no one standing in my way.

This is not an exit

Every time I look at an exit sign, I see the little forward arrow that zooms between the E and the X.




It's like a little everyday magic-eye trick. One of those things you cant stop noticing once you've been alerted to it. Like when you get a green car, all you see on the road are green cars. You wouldnt even notice them otherwise.

I read this article ages back about the most expensive logo over designed. Federal Express in the US payed some slick-mick advertising agency a bazillion dollars for a high concept rebranding. This is what they came up with:





The reason the big wigs justified their multi-million dollar pay cheque was that there is clearly an arrow screetching out between the E and the X, freeing the mind off into the myriad places one could, say, send a bubble wrapped parcel.

And surely it was hatched by some under-payed intern who was sitting staring at their A3 sketchpad at 5 in the morning, doodling with a fineliner, dreaming of the freedom they never appreciated when they were fooling around in their 101 college class. But then, suddenly, an Archimedes Bath moment...

HANG-ON!!

The most sucessfull logo ever designed is arguably the Nike swoosh symbol, and that was whipped up as a favour for 35 bucks by this student called Carolyn Davidson. They eventually gave her shares in the company.

A blag can get you a long way, and if you talk the talk, the walk might rise to meet you.

Just do it.

For the love of (brackets)

So this is the view of the office when I get out of the lift on my floor:



(I was a little terrified to take this shot, actually)

Oh. My God. Becky.

It's the ultimate open plan wasteland. Acres of slick cubicles and phones bleating and mounds of newspapers piled to the ceiling. Everyone is busy and stressed and dressed in contempo-corporate greys and blues and browns.

Work is improving and Im not so much a rabbit in headlights. Getting to know what Im doing a bit more, but it's thirsty work. I'm desperately trying to sponge everything into my brain so as not to ask a question twice. It's more draining than uni ever was. I'm a little ways off a by-line: today they had me compiling and cropping pics of Emma off Big Brother (of dead father fame) into a flash gallery.



She was a noted Adelaide model (or 'mannequin', as they're labelled in the paper trade) before entering the house, and there were loads of shots to choose from. Emma buffing a red porche in a bikini? Emma quaffing a caipairina at the opening of a South Terrace niteclub? Emma having her breasts fashioned into a native bush scene by renowned South Australian body artist? Big Brother is following me!!

It was absolutely pedal to the metal for the whole day, except for 10 minutes when I reeled across the street into a skinny fluorescent arcade curry counter for some lunch.



Scrummy.

Ive been looking at a few rooms, too. Saw one last night, one tonight. Both Adelaide Advertiser connections, close to the city, empty rooms and beige carpet and built in chipboard robes. Nice young girl flatmates. Nice enough all around. But I can't decide!!! For starters, I'm a little worried that my PVC fetish will get leaked to the greater population via group email if I move in with someone from work... You know?

I'm just loving serviced apartment bachelor life. One could get used to clean sheets every night. I really have to go shopping for particulars, milk, bread and such. The only thing in the fridge is a 2 litre bottle of cold cold sweet clear apple juice. I am loving that stuff right now. Best served chilled, straight out of the bottle neck, in the warm glow of the fridge light.




Ahhhhh...