Don't stand out

It was never going to be a good idea sending two casuals to a work Christmas party intended for managers.

We told ourselves no, it will be easy: all we have to do is make sure we observe the standard when we arrive and make sure there are other people drunker than we are. The aim was to not stand out.

Two hours later we've stolen someone else's halo headband and are bouncing round on the dancefloor like Tigger on a cocktail of viagra and crack, rhythmically dry-rooting anyone within a five meter radius, and proving once and for all why casuals should not be invited to the christmas party.

From what I remember it really wasn't that bad and has been exaggerated by a few, but admittedly there are a few blanks in my recollection of the night, including but not limited to the recurring appearance of a lady who was affectionately referred to as 'the cougar' who kept on gesturing for me to go and talk to and/or dance with her.

So yeah, now I'm 'that guy.' Y'know, 'that guy' from the christmas party, abbreviation of 'that guy from the christmas party who had it not been for the clothes separating him would have impregnated everyone within the company on the same night.'

You may now make me feel better by posting Christmas party horror stories...

Why I will never get back on the horse

Literally, not metaphorically.There are a few reasons. But one stands out.

Because I like my balls.

They're kind of... useful. While they are perhaps one of the more unsightly parts of the male anatomy, they serve a necessary purpose. They help me do things I like to do. And I don't particularly like the feeling that I may never be able to sit down comfortably again.

I went on a horse riding wine tour for a friend's 30th yesterday, which was admittedly an awesome idea, but I don't think I prepared myself properly.

We rocked up late, and after signing a quick statement saying we won't, yknow, sue anyone if we die, it's straight into it.

There are a handful of latecomers standing round with a nervous awkwardness. The instructor leads a horse over to me, 'parks' it, and places a milk crate on the left side. My horse's name is Lucky, and it doesn't take me long to figure out why.

It's short for "Lucky the horse knows what he's doing cause the rider has no idea."

"Okay. Climb up," she instructs.

Up until now the closest I've ever been to a horse is a paddock away.

So she's really helpful and tells me exactly how to do it. I'm waiting for the instructions about what to do once I'm up there, but there aren't any yet. It's a very 'cross that bridge when we come to it' kind of deal.

You don't realise how unsettling it is to be sitting on an animal that big until you're actually doing it. It's pretty unsettling. But I try to get used to it. The first thing that strikes me is the lack of controls. No indicators. No wipers. No radio. No seatbelt. Not even a cup holder. This shit is oldschool.

I don't know how to steer yet, and there are other people to be helped. So the girl goes to help the others and my horse just walks off, hangs out, does whatever it wants to do. A feeling of being out of control sweeps over me and I realise this horse is the boss of me. That doesn't seem like it's the way it's supposed to be.

After I learn how to steer and stop, we head off on a two hour trail. But pretty soon it becomes obvious to me that I may as well not know how to steer or stop, because my horse is pretty much doing whatever it wants regardless of how I'm pulling the reigns. As in "Lucky he's wearing a helmet, caus pretty soon he's going to fall off and get kicked in the face."

I literally have no idea what I'm doing. I mainly just try to look like I'm in control while my horse follows the one in front. Annoyingly, I'm overcome with the instense desire to speak in a deep southern American accent whenever I talk.

Nobody told me what to do if the horse starts to run. On a flat piece of the track, which has become quite wide, my horse decides to have a bit of a piss-bolt.

There's a little rope handle thing on the front of the saddle to hold on to, but to stop you have to pull on the reigns. So it's kind of one or the other. But it's hard to think about when you have half a second to decide.

Now, this thing about the ball-violation. Picture cooking a nice hot meal. Y'know that point when you're making mashed potatoes, after they're boiled but still intact and you're about to take to them with the masher? Okay... replace the potatoes, with my balls. That's kind of what went on. As in, "Lucky he doesn't like kids much anyway because after this there's no way he'll ever father any."

There are at least two other occasions when my horse decides to mix it up a little and have a few more piss-bolts, and each time I can't stop him, even by pulling on the rope as hard as I can. So I just try to hold on and wait for him to get over it.

We arrive at this winery place and have lunch. I didn't drink any wine. I swapped it for Coronas. When it's time to 'get back on the horse' (HA), I am feeling a mix of more confident from the alcohol and more nervous because I know it will hurt my ass again.

But on the way back, the horse decides to be significantly nicer to me and there is none of this canter shit going on. It's good.

Even with a smoother ride, the whole time I am on edge. There really isn't a lot of trust between Lucky and I, and while it's slightly reassuring to know I have a rope attached to his mouth, deep down I know it won't do squat because if he wants to do something, he just does it.

When my feet are back on ground, all I can think about is how sore my bum is. Without exaggerating, it feels like I've been violated. And not the good kind of violated, like the outnumbered-by-hot-girls-who-tie-you-down-and-force-you-to-sex-them violated. The bad kind of violated, like the got-force-fed-some-roofies-while-spending-a-night-in-prison-and-don't-remember-what-went-down violated.

When I'm in my car driving home, it's relieving to be able to steer and have the 'horse' do exactly what I want. When I feel my feet push the accellerator and clutch it somehow feels similar to where my feet were in those metal things. But this car slows down when I push the stop pedal. It's unheard of.

As much as I've complained, it wasn't all bad. I have a real respect for horse riders now, because it must take so long building trust with the animal. It's good to be able to say I tried it. The Winery was awesome, it was cool riding slowly through this trail, and the views at the top of the hills were insane.

Above all, it's reassuring to know that if I ever wake up with this same sore feeling and don't remember the night before, I may need to make a trip to the doctor.

Hate the players not the game

Yes I complain about uni lots. But I'm going to keep going.

The biggest thing I hate about uni is trying to ask people to help me with assignments. It's hard enough getting people to talk to you on a microphone, but getting them to talk on a camera, well... forget it.

Especially when you have to explain the situation and can't avoid using the words "student" and "assignment."

I'm starting to think there is a secret code word you have to use to win people's cooperation. Obviously I don't know it yet, maybe it's presented to me when I graduate. I did try a few different approaches and was always polite and friendly. But I got no love. I came up with a hardass approach in my mind that I'd never have the balls to use.

Look, I know I'm a student and you don't care about what I'm doing. But really, that means we have something in common. It will take a few minutes max, nobody will ever see it apart from my teacher. And they don't really care. I don't even really care. We don't have our own TV station, it will never be broadcast. So what honestly makes you think that I'm in any position to uncover something the mainstream outlets can't in about two seconds because yknow, I can't, I haven't been taught how to yet.

Today I spent no less than 6 hours participating in what could loosely be referred to as the biggest game of 'piss off the uni student' with a cast of about 20 useless, unhelpful, unenthusiastic characters.

So now, I'd like to thank them. A cast list, if you will.

Thanks must go to:

- The PR rep at the Brisbane Casino who, after listening to half my explanation, cut me off and offered to email me a press release. Offering a TV journo an email is about as helpful as offering a land mine victim a bandaid.

- The lovely media rep at the QPS headquarters who told me to go on the website because police resources were so scarce she couldn't help me with anything else. Again, what the fuck am I going to do with a website when I'm trying to FILM something for a TV story?

- The team at the Normanby Hotel who "don't talk to anyone about anything" without the approval of their manager, who is overseas for two weeks and seemingly away from an internet connection for the entire duration.

- The team at Uber who, while polite, were too unimaginative to even come up with an excuse and told me to ring back in a few hours.

- The team of experts at my own university who were too understaffed to give me five minutes with anyone for an interview.

- The researcher who I then turned to at Griffith who sent the prompt response "I have no time this week." As a guess, I'd say you'd be at work for what, eight hours a day, so 40 hours a week. So I'm asking you for less than 2% of your week, and you can't deliver, when it was your institution who conducted the research that triggered this "oh-my-god-we're-all-going-to-get-a-glass-smashed-in-our-face-quick-everyone-stay-in-their-fucking-houses-and-drink-out-of-plastic" glassing hype by giving birth to a report that Ms Bligh didn't herself read but still acted upon and used as a justification.

- My own awesome university who asks me to pay upwards of $650 for a course, but can't provide adequate resources (camera, tripod) for me to complete the poorly organised, time consuming assignments they ask for. Can we please stop hiring extra people to polish our sandstone and instead buy some more videocameras.

I can however see an argument that it was my fault for leaving it til the last minute. And yeah, I'm really friggin disorganised and I find it hard to care about subjects that are taught by a freakshow of pretentious, self-righteous, bragging outdated misfits.

But to that I say, what kind of news organisation would come to me and say "Hey Jamie, we're looking a bit short for our show four weeks from now, can you brainstorm a little?" When you think about it, I'm doing myself a favour learning how to do things quickly.

And when it comes down to it, that move again paid off. Finally, the manager of a prominent bar called back in the afternoon and, after a bit of convincing, agreed to do it for me tomorrow morning.

I may have possibly pulled the guilt trip card and improvised the "nobody will see it" line I was thinking of. But he actually shed some light on the issue.

"Yeah look, the reason you're having trouble getting people to help is because the media doesn't actually give a balanced perspective of our industry."

So I took it as an opportunity to build some trust.

"YES but ***** that's why you should deal with journalism students instead, because we're not journos yet and haven't been taught fully."

So finally, thanks to the modern day media who have ruined it for the rest of us and raped the resources to the point where we're all viewed as untrustworthy.

Making of a journo

Every time I do a uni assignment, I can't help but think "how is this helping me become a journalist?"

Most of the time, the answer is "it's not."

It's more of the same with the latest assignment, requiring me to compare two consecutive editions of The 7:30 Report with two of A Current Affair.

Who would have guessed that, in summary, The 7:30 Report shits all over A Current Affair. The worst part of it was that I had to actually watch two episodes, and as I was sitting there being told about the pensioner who got fined for not having her dogs on a lead, and the old woman who got kicked out of the RSL for wearing a hoodie, I felt more than one part of me die on the inside.

To make it more fun, it turned into a cynical Grimshaw-bashing-fest, because that was the only way I could actually write about this comparison and not sound like a dick.

Q. Are the lead stories worthy of being the leads?

A. I cannot help but conclude that ACA’s "weightloss coffee" effort is not worthy of being a lead, but when placed next to the other pieces, it seems to emerge as the less ridiculous option in a proverbial sideshow of shallow, uninspiring reports.

and later

In terms of covering the issues of the day, it is again unsurprising that ABC offers a much more rigorous coverage of daily news stories. While ACA indeed broadcasts more stories, we only need to look at their titles (see appendix B) to conclude that the stories aired are at best ‘water-cooler conversation’ and will in no way trigger meaningful public debate. To use an example:

"A few years ago, the girls who played bingo at the club were up in arms over an apparent ban on them bringing lollies into the RSL."
– ACA, September 16, 2009

and again

However, we should remember that there are vastly different target audiences in mind. That in itself is perhaps a little worrying, in that people relying on ACA for their daily news intake are allowed to cross the road alone, but we should remember that if there wasn’t a market for it, this kind of journalism would not exist.

finally

To leave the last word with Tracy Grimshaw, commenting on the Hornsby Ku-ring-gai Hospital being stripped of nine million dollars, yet giving us a strangely symbolic, ominous commentary for journalism students who watch ACA:

“This story will make you wonder what hope we've got."

The Nimbin Lifestyle

I gave myself an impromptu mid-semester break this week and spent the week road tripping and drinking. It started with a trip to Byron Bay, which actually didn't turn out too well because it was windy as hell and there was no sun.

About an hour away is Nimbin, which emerges as a tourist attraction in itself for all the wrong reasons.

In the lead up to our arrival at the city centre, I lost all phone reception. Not the most settling of feelings, yet strangely appropriate in symbolism, and capturing the overall feel of the town itself - if you get knifed (and you probably will), there's nobody to help.

We drove past a guy hitchiking with a full on rucksack, like the kind of thing you see in a cartoon where a kid runs away from home and packs up all their belongings in a hankerchief tied to a stick to carry over their shoulder. But this guy clearly wasn't a kid. I'm pretty sure he came out of the womb smoking a joint. He glared us as we drove past as if to say "I know where youse guys live, and I'm coming to get youse." This might just be a personal thing, but I'm of the opinion that if you're going to have a crack at hitchiking, you should probably put in the effort not to look like an axe murderer.

We pull up in Nimbin which has a city centre stretching all of one block. It's all looking pretty average.



Now it didn't take long to realise why this town has a long standing reputation for being the Weed Capital of Australia. I've only walked past three shops when we came to a frizzy-haired woman of about forty, who asked "wanna but some marijuana cookies guys?"

I try to only subtly bulge my eyes and politely decline with a "no thankyou."

It's about this time that I realise how colourful the shops all are. We walk on to probably the most interesting building in the town, a decrepit series of rooms, which has possibly once been burnt out, but found a new function as the town's politically-motivated hippy art museum of sorts.

The front is decked out with a display of a comby 'crashing' through the wall and signs inviting visitors in to learn about the history of Nimbin.

Outside is a grey haired man who, by my guess, most likely holds the record for the country's oldest hippy. His tattered grey hair formed into a set of dreadlocks, set of teeth like the spikes of a deformed cactus with every second missing, tie dyed shirt and constantly shaking hands. Now if anyone tries to argue that weed doesn't affect a person, I'd invite them to take one glance at this guy and eat their words.

Although it's hard for me not to judge by appearance, he seems okay to talk to and invites us to go in, have a look around, and make a donation if we like it.

Before we go in, a member of a group of teenagers hovering near the door comes over to me and, in a high-pitched, shaky voice (that I have on more than one occasion used to imitate a junkie), bursts out "hey buddy wanna buy some weed?"

I let out a "no thanks maaaan" before walking, quickly, into the building.



The 'museum' is a series of dark, unsettling but visually stimulating rooms that form some kind of an artistic protest rat-maze. There's no prizes for guessing the common theme.



Yes, the gange features somewhat prominently in this obscure, deformed gallery. Every room seems to have some kind of message along the lines of "fuck you, make it legal."

There are however some uplifting and interesting displays.




Yes, I probably would constantly love myself, and all the furniture and objects around me, if I was high as a kite from nine to five.

While the rest of the group makes an effort to read through the avalanche of information, I can't deny that I really didn't take much of it in, because I was a little preoccupied with staying in the well lit areas and watching my back.

It strikes me as the kind of attraction you might find in theme park where people jump out of the dark and scare you. The only difference being that, in this attraction, they jump out of the dark with a dirty syringe and stab you in the face.

Towards the back of the building is a kind of bar set up, and my best subtle look through reveals a group of stoned guys behind a sort of bar set up, but instead of serving drinks, they sell pot.

Having moved through the whole thing, it seems to be the time I'd like to get out of the building, while I still have a pulse. It suddenly hits me that I have to give this old hippy money now, because I'm pretty sure that if I don't it will be considered disrespectful and I'll have my throat cut and body thrown in a ditch and no cop would ever have the balls to try to find it.

I walk out and put two gold coins in the donation tin, making sure that they both create a loud clanging noise, in order to make everyone around me certain that I have chipped in to their next weed purchase.

The hippy guy is still out the front, and the rest of the group goes to talk to him while I mainly stand around looking awkward in fear of my life.

There's not much else to see in Nimbin, every shop has some kind of marijuana theme, either with a big fake bong or joint as a display in the window, or even with a name... Billabong becomes "bring-a-bong." And no, it doesn't sell surfing clothes, it sells bongs. Big, ugly, filthy bongs.

We walk past pretty much every shop, but for all I know we could have been walking past the same shop twenty times. They're all flogging dream catcher, spiritual-like shit. We walk past the hemp bar while an overwhelming scent intermittently assaults my nostrils.

After about half an hour of looking round it's time to get the F out. On the way back to the car, I take the photo which best sums up Nimbin as a town.




That, people, is a cat stoned off its tits wishing it was dead, momentarily paralyzed by the intense desire to be somewhere, anywhere, else.

New laziness PB

It's about that time in the semester when there's a minefield of due dates to tread on, and I should really be being more astute than I am. It's just so much harder to care about your subjects when your lecturers are massive tools.

The most recent due date that I made an effort to ignore was last thursday, only a small one - 5 news photographs telling a story and a 300 word justification.

Following the lead of those who'd already handed theirs in and had obviously faked it in some way, I'd come up with a devious plan to fudge it and take photos of the cast of a play, who I know, getting ready all actorly-like n' shit, then on stage rehearsing.

It didn't happen. The night I planned to take the photos, which happened to be the night before it was due, there was only half a cast, no theatre, and a stream of whiney protests of "Oh you're not taking photos of ME. No I don't like that."

So I said goodbye to my plan A.

I had a good hard think about another idea that would be interesting, and considered what might make a wannabe-editor wet their pants. The next plan was awesome. I would go to the RSPCA and get shots of sad puppies, showing the different stages an animal goes through when they're taken in there. Secretly I knew any editor would blow their load over the amount of clicks this would generate, but let's just pretend I was going to do it because I was interested in the idea.

So I sent off an email letting them know I was coming, and rocked up at 9am on the day my assignment was due.

The woman at the front desk, while very pleasant, could only tell me that I would have to go through their media guy and arrange another day.

Now I really hate explaining that I'm doing something for a uni assignment, because I remain convinced that as soon as I say the word "assignment" the person listening becomes ten times less helpful and more likely to fobb you off.

So I waited while she rang the media dude with my camera purposely in plain sight. The answer came back that I was only allowed to take photos of some pens in an observation bit, most of which were empty. I wandered around for a while before deciding the idea, if I went through with it, would suck epic balls, and left.

So it's 9:30. It's due at 12. Starting to freak out a bit here, and I'm driving back from the RSPCA, planning to just go into the city and look for something interesting, when I hear on the news that there was a sheet of glass that accidentally dropped from a skyscraper in the CBD. It's fucking perfect, and although it'll be obvious I took the photos the same day I don't care because they'll be unique.

There's no way I'm driving into the city, so I leave my car near the uni bridge and catch a bus. I'm there within 15 mins and looking for this abundance of smashed glass, firefighters and police on Eagle Street. But there's nothing.

There's stuff all. It's been cleaned up already, and all there is to take photos of is the hundreds upon hundreds of yuppies swaggering around in suits on their way to the cafes to pick up their third skinny-soy-chai-latte-with-a-dash-of-fuckwit-on-the-side for the day. I'm feeling drastically out of place, hanging around in shorts and a tshirt with this camera, sulking because I want some shit to go down.

There is no shit going down. Anywhere. There is no shit to be seen anywhere.

I sulk back up towards the mall looking around like a tourist praying for a car crash, or a fire, or a gunfight, or an impromptu protest to break out so I can get som friggin amazing first hand photos. But there's squat all.

So I sulk further while I think about getting a doctors certificate to get me out of this tute where I have to upload my photos. I sulk all the way over to South Bank, where there is some mega-lame Da Vinci Invention display set up like a big circus tent.

I ask the girl at the ticket booth whether I can take photos, and she agrees. It costs fifteen bucks.

I spend the next fifteen minutes trying to look like I'm actually reading stuff as well as taking photos of machines I will struggle to explain if asked.

Eventually, I get back to uni with one hour to spare, shitty and flustered like a 5 year old who's had his ice cream confiscated.

Turns out I have to also explain the photos, which makes it a bit interesting.

Still though, a new PB. I usually stick to the night-before-it's-due mentality, but an hour before it's due is the shortest I've left it.

Worst fifteen bucks I've ever spent.

Balibo Review

Few things in cinema are as provocative as a well told, expertly crafted, brilliantly acted true story.

In 1975, five journalists from channels Seven and Nine traveled to East Timor to cover the imminent Indonesian invasion. Constantly warned of the danger, they were drawn by the knowledge that if they could film the invasion, it would force the world to pay attention.

Balibo is told through the eyes of veteran journalist Roger East (Anthony LaPaglia). East retraces their steps to uncover the truth, guided by diplomat Jose Ramos-Horta (Oscar Isaac).

The result is one of the most powerful Australian films of 2009.

As an audience, we're gradually submerged into danger the same pace as East. This slow-build tension is key in the film's effectiveness. It's easy to distance ourselves from conflicts like East Timor, and I found myself thinking the same way as the journalists: yes it's dangerous, but surely a reporter can remain detached.

LaPaglia gives an outstanding performance, with a strong supporting cast.

The camerawork, imitating a handheld style, heightens the action. The recreations of news broadcasts are particularly effective, with Damon Gameau's performance as Greg Shackleton worthy of special mention.

Predictably, some scenes are unsettling if not infuriating to watch. Balibo generates a strong patriotic empathy. But while sometimes difficult, it carries important messages.

It speaks at length of the importance of journalism in holding those in power accountable. As the cameramen attempt to film from the front line of conflict, taking cover from the fire behind a stone wall, their cameras act almost as a retaliatory attack. They could just as easily be firing back bullets.

My one criticism concerns the use of an eye witness account to place Balibo in the present. It felt contrived and added an unnecessary stall to the start of the film.

While not aimed at the 18-24 demographic, I would encourage young people in particular to see Balibo, as it is framed by one of the most important events in recent history and contains some fine performances.