Unhappy Australians In An Unhappy (But Well Off) Country

There were reports earlier this year about the nation experiencing a good economic and social situation in an increasingly downturned world, but that Australians were still negative about their outlook. We were seen as being out of step with reality, with other nations worse off than us coming off more positive about the future. Shorthand: we looked like a bunch of privileged, whining complainers.

I had two experiences with strangers recently that emphasised those reports.

I had my scooter towed. The man who picked us up took me into the city, and we got to talking while I bobbed along in his passenger seat.

Among the stories of identity theft and scooter efficiency, the driver decried superannuation as the biggest scam perpetrated by a government rife with business interference. I suggested that maybe it was a good thing we all had to prepare for retirement, but he insisted the money just sitting there, earning interest or making profit off investments that the superannuation owners got to enjoy was outrageous. I offered that it was a good thing we'd been given a choice of who to trust our super with. Nope, he wouldn't have a bar of it. As far as he was concerned, people using our money to make a profit was awful.

"You can always just stash it in a bank, then, or a coffee can under your bed?"

The second chap came to install our oven. We talked about the high cost of living, and he asked if I thought it was better in America. I told him it was most decidedly not. Healthcare, education, working conditions. No way. And perhaps the higher cost of living was necessary for a better life in a better country. He seemed dissatisfied with that, shrugged.

A few tweaks of his screwdriver later, he complimented the suburb I live in. We spoke about how the west of Melbourne is a growth area, that we'd bought because we thought we'd get a good price when we eventually sold. He said it still wouldn't be much, though, compared to what we'd paid and what we'd have to pay for a new place.

He shared with me the original price of his property in Narre Warren, mere tens of thousands. I remarked that now, once he sold, he'd make huge profit. Nope, because then he'd have to buy another place and lose it all. This man was actually complaining about the big profit he'd make on his real estate sale. He'd bought early, just like my parents had in the same south eastern part of Melbourne. Now that prices are so high out there, it's the perfect time for folks like him to take advantage of the market. But nope, everything's the worst.

"My mum's probably going to sell her four bedroom and get a smaller one-bedroom now that we kids have moved out, and sit pretty off the difference."

"But even one-bedrooms are too expensive because everybody wants them."

Jesus, mate, fine! The nation is holding strong, we all have jobs, homes,family, property we can eventually sell: but you're right, both of you, let's go hang ourselves!

Public Apology for Not Apologising

I was drowned out amidst the Alan Jones/Julia Gillard's dad affair, so this one didn't make the cycle in time for The Punch. I liked it, and I'm sure its subject matter will become relevant again all too soon, so here you go.

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Chinese artist Chen Wenling, credits: Ng Han Guan/AP

Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here today. I know you were on your weekend. I myself had to cancel my trip overseas and rush back to make this press conference. I may have been constantly tweeting on the plane, and taking phone calls with radio stations and TV shows to fill as much air as I could with my precious voice, but I'm glad you could all make it today so I only have to say this once.

It's time to set the record straight.

Last week, I was at a dinner function where I gave a speech. I was invited there by a group of people I hardly know, just a group of students who, for some reason, wanted to hear what I have to say. Yes, I did receive a direct email from their President, whose signature, in hindsight, said he was leader of the Young Communists, but before you reminded me, I had no recollection of that memory.

While at this event, I spoke about the direction of talkback radio and political discourse, and it's alleged I made comments that might offend a person of weak constitution, particular if that person is who I specifically made the comments about. Now I'm not going to give in to speculation about what was and what wasn't recorded, and what was and wasn't publicly released on the record, except to say that any offensive statements I may have made were not supposed to be recorded or public. And the fact that they were made public, I think, is a clear indication of the dangers we're being exposed to in this day and age.

I mean, look, if I'm expected to watch what I say when I go into a public forum, well, I wouldn't be able to say anything, would I? If I'm not allowed to make someone feel awful and really offend them - and this is someone who gets offended, mind you - then what's the point of speaking?

I point out that this person gets offended not because I think it's weak and useless, but simply because I've never been offended in my life. I'm not questioning this person's choice to be offended, I'm just wondering if maybe choosing to be not offended is the better option. Certainly it would make people like me, it would make our lives easier.

In summary, I need to make it clear I never really made those comments to offend anyone, so of course they can't be considered offensive, and so really, it's like they don't exist. And anyone who was offended by them is clearly an idiot and a person of such low integrity, I'd suggest they're more akin to a slime mould than an actual human being. But that's just my opinion, and I'm paid to give my opinion, so I'm sure any sponsors out there will continue to support me as I root out slime moulds in our society. That's my job, and that's what I'll keep doing. Not offending anyone with comments that never existed because if they didn't offend someone, how could I have made them?

Thank you, I hope this has clarified the issue, and I'll be taking questions from you after I leave.

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When Simon J. Green isn't offering arch support for the feet inside commentator's mouths, he's producing videos for The X Gene and ruining his own reputation at The Awesome Report.

The Guy Who Told Me To "Keep Walking, Faggot"

I forgot to write this story up. I'd been meaning to after it happened, and now I'm reminded because of this article by bridgetneval, showing a long list of nasty things that have been done to women as they go about their lives. It reminded me of this:

About a month ago, I was in Sunshine, western inner suburb of Melbourne. It was a sunny day, about 1pm. I came out of Sunshine Plaza's JB Hi Fi exit. My scooter was parked in front of NAB. For the uninitiated, I'm exiting a big door, and to my left, maybe five meters, my scooter is parked on the sidewalk.

As I fiddled for my keys, I looked over at my scooter. I heard a young man I'd not even noticed mutter something. I kept walking for a few seconds before I even realised he'd muttered it at me. He'd just threatened me!

"Keep walking, faggot."

My brain took a slow while to put together what and why. I'd looked over to my scooter, which was behind the man leaning against the edge of the doorway exit. He must have thought I was looking at him. He was standing, talking to a girl. He must have been arcing up to look tough in front of her.

If I'd actually heard the threat at the time, I may have stopped and looked right at him, most likely out of surprise. My experience tells me he'd have taken that as a return volley. It could have escalated.

This guy must be pretty basic to be acting like that, but that's how dickhead guys act towards other guys. I was just so surprised! It came out of nowhere! There are dickheads in the world, everywhere, and no one's immune. We just receive their dickheadery in different ways and varying levels of aggression.

Please, don't be a dickhead.

Kony, Charities and Commenting

The Kony thing is big right now. I watched it, was moved by the video for my own reasons, then I saw all the backlash. I can't help but feel ambivalent about the backlash, because really, we can all find ways to shrug off some charity or the other. I get steamed seeing all the pink ribbon product bouncing around, because it seems to eclipse any other, equally pressing charity or cause, so I sometimes find myself boozily railing against it amongst my smug pocket of young, white, middle-class professional friends.

But pink ribbon research into curing and supporting breast cancer patients is of course very worthwhile. The cause of Kony is too. So is the RSPCA. Or Men's Shed. Or Beyond Blue. Or Carers Victoria. Or Cystic Fibrosis Australia. Or Amnesty International. Or the bearded homeless fellow in the city who wears a peaked cap, always looks half asleep and holds out a cup for change.

For any and all of these organisations and people, I could find a reason to say no and tell my friends to avoid them. Some have evidence against them, some just give me a funny feeling. At the end of it all, I decide, quietly or publicly on Facebook, to support or not. I could also decide to dedicate my time to loudly proclaiming my position against one or all of these organisations.

My point? What's more annoying: the person who re-posts a popular non-profit's message, or the person who comments against that post?

UPDATE: Um, never mind! http://www.suntimes.com/news/nation/11405869-418/leader-of-kony-video-group-jason-russell-to-focus-on-health.html

Star Wars will never die, but we might!

These movies are over twenty years old. PLEASE SOMEONE FREE US FROM THIS INFINITY LOOP!

Blue Harvest, It's A Trap and Something, Something, Something Dark Side are THREE different extended parodies by Family Guy. WHY!? They even reference how common and lazy such a thing is in the title of the latter. THEN WHY!? Characters from American Dad and The Cleveland Show are dragged in to make up numbers. WHY!?

Robot Chicken also did three (THREE!) Star Wars parodies. How many jokes are left to be extracted from this inflated, bedraggled, immortal beast?

There's no doubt Star Wars appeal will continue to endure...TO OUR GRAVES AND BEYOND, LIKE A VERSION OF REPETITIVE HELL.

Location:A special circle of Hell

An Auto-Eligible Health Care Card For Chronic Illness Is Crucial

$422.15. That's how much the bill for my last batch of medicines is. I opened a box delivered to me today and yelled when I saw the price. This is for three months worth of medication, and doesn't even cover all the medication I take over that period. If we added them all, including my pancreatic ezyme supplement Creon (I use about 18 tubs in a month) and Pulmozyme, a gene therapy treatment, we'd be at about $1000 every three months. $4000 a year. $108,000 over the course of my life so far.

With a health care card, currently supplied at bare minimum via a mobility allowance ($80 per fortnight) from Centrelink, that $422.15 would become about $50. I can afford $50.

We need Centrelink to create or change their rules so that certain chronic illnesses are automatically eligible for a health card card. Currently, you must be approved for a certain allowance or benefit - a cash payment - in order to get the card. Centrelink, or the Dept of Human Services, are constantly changing their rules to become more confusing, but last I looked into it, there's no way to simply get a health care card on its own.

Here's the dumb bit. Say you have CF or Down's Syndrome. Your illness isn't going anywhere. You have it for life. However, every year, you'll be sent a fairly exhaustive, 20 or so page form that asks you, essentially, to confirm you still have your illness.

"Yes, I still have my genetic mutation, the one I had at birth, of which there is no cure."

If you don't get that form in on time? Suspended. Payments cut off. Pharmacy no longer recognises your health care card. Miss the next 14 day deadline? Cancelled. You have to start again. Do you think Centrelink can just dip into your existing file, see the past form that state you have CF or Down's and say, "Oh, right, well, let's reinstate him?" NOPE! You have to tell them the same info all over again!

Without going into my suspicions that Centrelink's ethos is to establish a series of impediments, designed to frustrate claimants in a war of attrition, here's what we can do to fix it:
http://goo.gl/gLQjT - A GetUp campaign suggestion from Samantha Durrant (CF patient and receiver of double lung transplant), titled
'EVERYONE WHO HAS A CHRONIC ILLNESS SHOULD HAVE A HEALTH CARE CARD'.

Go on in and vote for this to move up the chain. You can do it via your Facebook or Google account. Write to your member for Health and Caring. As I commented on the site:

I have cystic fibrosis. I was born with it, I'll have it until I die. WIthout a healthcare card i would be looking at about $1000 every three months for my ongoing drugs. I can't have saved up for this "rainy day" because I wasn't born yet. Similarly, my parents couldn't have saved up, as they'd have had to have saved $108,000 so far, just for my meds. This doesn't cover 3 monthly specialist check ups, surgery (I've had 7 on my bowels alone), equipment and the various other joys of a chronic illness.
The current system is ridiculous. Centrelink are constantly throwing up roadblocks that result in recurrent reviews and changes, the ability to keep up with which would require superhuman bodyparts, not just a regularly working body. For certain diseases and illnesses that the sufferer will have to tend to for their entire lives, it just makes sense that they should be given a simple health care card, even if it is without any sort of money or stipend, just to keep the costs of living manageable.
When Cystic Fibrosis Victoria can't afford to keep essential services running, as is the case right now, then who else can we turn to when the broken health car card system is constantly waging a war of attrition against those who need a card.

Flood Levy Supported By Gen Y & X

“@MissBaileyWoof: Newspoll on flood levy. Voters back Gillard tax. Support 55 Oppose 41. Strongest support among 18-34s, most against are over 50s.”

All this generational bullshit saying generation Y aren't responsible and that we're selfish and lazy...yet here we have older people deciding they'd rather not give their money to flood rebuilding. Is it because they have more money to lose? Who cares? The generational wedge is rubbish and crap. But the next person who writes an article about it can use these figures to arm themselves one way or another.

To Be A Nerd: Patton Oswalt and Nerdism

Patton Oswalt wrote a compelling and interesting article on nerdery, pop culture and subculture. It could be considered the co-theory of Pop Will Eat Itself: Nerds Will Eat Themselves, Throw It All Up and Coat the World. (The article)

I got to thinking a little bit. 'Nerd' as it was used in the eighties and, certainly for me, the nineties, wasn't just about what you liked, or to borrow Oswalt's vernacular, what you lined your thought-palace with. Being called a nerd was as much about the people who did the name calling in the first place. You can't be called something without someone calling. To be a nerd was to like something different, weird, not part of the mainstream. We liked things the cool kids weren't aware of, and that made them dislike us but it also made us special.

I don't think that defining aspect of nerdism is gone. True, nerd culture is now pop culture, but that just means a different set of likes and small joys that sit outside the mainstream are being devoured by a new, different set of neo-nerds. Maybe using the word 'nerd' to describe an outcast kid is off-base now, and we need a new word. It should be easy to find: simply go down to the nearest schoolyard and eavesdrop on the words being spat at by those outcasts.

Nerd used to be derisive, or maybe you've forgotten. I think everyone's always been a weak Otaku, they've just had different things to obsess over. From a housewife in the fifties discussing the best laundry detergent with her friends to a member of the Vienese court, waxing lyrical over Beethoven in 1795. What really made a nerd, back in my day, was that what you liked was scorned by the mainstream, but you loved it anyway.

I'm certain those signifiers still exist today. What are they, do you think? In an age where Boba Fett and comic books are cool, what isn't?

Stephen Fry's Comments About Cottaging Are Not Misogyny

All of you STOP! Read the goddamn article that Stephen Fry was originally quoted in. Be somewhat familiar with Stephen Fry. It is completely out of context and verging on vicious lies when all these newspapers and blogs run with a headline like, "Women can't enjoy sex," and use phrases like, "In a bizarre outburst."

What absolute bloody arsehanky. What a slimy, sniveling, under-rock-crawling, straw grasping, pathetic approach to journalism these people are taking.

How on earth can you call an organized interview an outburst? And again, read the bloody article and you'll see there's not a skerrick of misogyny. What a horrid, ludicrous and opportunistic word to throw at someone as consistently compassionate and concerned for human rights as Stephen Fry. Commenters are pointing at that he's old and gay, using that as a reason for his comments, as if he's mentally slipped from syphilis due to his years of buggery. What a horrid way to treat someone. Fry has said numerous times his being gay was a fiery trial that almost ended with him at the end of a rope or choking on his own vomit. He emerged firm on the need to accept people and his liberal mind and pursuits demonstrate a commitment to equality and human rights.

What we're seeing here is a completely overblown and misguided sense of feminism, a vicious mutation of feminism that isn't true to the cause, that seeks to crush men instead of equalize women. It's the sort of feminism you find in a university campus among a group of young women recently scorned by lovers who have thrown their hands in the air angrily and said they've given up on men, but who, ten years later, lose their anger, find the right man (or woman) and buy a labradoodle together, hopefully feeling faintly embarrassed about their overwrought man-hating when they look back at campus life during a nostalgic moment. Worse, it's women who never let go of that anger and look for any possible target to unleash on, never once thinking to have a proper look at the target first.

The comments and articles spewing out in relation to Fry's interview smack of ignorance and off-topic agenda-pushing rants. I remember when a book was released that talked about sex, IVF and homosexuality, aimed at young kids. People decried the book while proudly stating that of course they hadn't actually read it, it's filth and evil. This week's trashy articles read exactly like those squealing fools.

It's not feminism that is happening here. Feminists aren't attacking Stephen Fry for his harmless comments about gay men having much higher and sometimes more kinky sex drives than women. It's people who think they are feminists. People who think that tearing down an old queer who states quite truthfully that there are very few places to find heterosexual cruising lanes or cottages makes them a feminist.

Feminism is about increasing the power of women so they can take their rightful place next to men, not under them. Feminism is about creating a culture that sees humans, not man and woman. It's about breaking barriers: wage barriers, job barriers, rights barriers. It's about changing the minds of men who dismiss women just because they are women. It has nothing to do with a gay men commenting that he thinks gay men like sex more than straight women, in the context of whether or not women use public places for lewd and lascivious acts. Re-read that last sentence and see how ludicrous it sounds to judge a man's entire worldview based on such a light and frivolous topic.

Melbourne Show Copy Fail

I saw a poster for The Royal Melbourne show that really pointed out why companies need a skilled copywriter.

No doubt if you live in Melbourne, you've seen this poster at tram shelters and train stations. The problem is the prevalence of those unwarranted little apostrophes after Moo, Baa and Ooh. The apostrophe between a word and an s denotes ownership. This poster can be roughly translated as saying the show belongs to Moo, Baa and Ooh - and then someone screams. It could also be saying there are three stores owned or named after Moo, Baa and Ooh, and that this causes someone so much grief they have to scream Aaaggh!

Maybe Moo, Baa and Ooh take the prize for best cow, sheep and carrot cake each year, and the little kids in the picture are frustrated contenders who've had enough of the trinity's dominance? Whatever the case, if those apostrophes were inserted on purpose, the intention isn't very clear. If they were a mistake, then that's a city-wide mistake seen by lots of eyes. If you have a business that's communicating to the world, to a small local network or even to your employees, it's wise to have someone who understands language and communication. A skilled copywriter can save you from putting out what I think we can safely call a copy disaster.

Melbourne

We love Melbourne so much, we once made a show about it.

Hot damn if I don't love Melbourne. It's the city I was raised in and around and I've got a terrible bias because I've never left the country, but I don't rip on junkies who love junk because hot junk is the only drug they shot into their arm. I'm a Melbourne junkie. I even appreciate the place junkies have in my fair city, because I take a tram, and anyone who takes a tram in Melbourne has dealt with a junkie or a drunkie.

Rolling in through North Melbourne has that rather unique combination of horrendously broken men and women screaming at each other and lightly slapping each other's crusty face with limp, track marked arms, sitting right next to upstanding women with sticks up their butt, ignoring the screeching as desperately as their head phones will allow. The hipsters come on and off, scurrying away to either a derelict commercial space that's been illegally transferred into a rental property or, in stark juxtaposition (a word any good hipster loves), their three-quarter of a million dollar townhouse owned by mummy and daddy. If you hear a note of scorn in my voice, I guarantee you've mistaken the true ring of pride. My unshaven, capped, cargo-panted, flannel visage, clinging with all its might to the nineties, blends in with this freaky-deaky mélange like a needle in a public toilet.

Victorian State Gallery : Cameron Zayec 2007

Melbourne is blue. That's its colour. Look at it from a distance, the medium height skyline, and tell me its overall mood isn't blue. The mix of modern look at me please oh god look at me architecture with the old gothic and deco office buildings, holding firm from the fifties when John Brack painted brown and tan bankers moving from work at five o'clock, their lined mouths barely registering emotion beyond a faint urge to climb back into the nest with a scotch and dinner on the table. The Nicholas Building on Elizabeth Street that I would so dearly love to film inside - this is a building with elevators with grated, manually operated doors, with elevators run by attendees who decorate their cell with flowers, pictures of puppies and an electric space heater. Melbourne University's weird, wavy cow building, the home of the Criminology and Psychology department, whose glass is printed with black and white rounded splotches, long vertical wavy steel dividing the bovine skin. Nearby is the Roundabout of Death, where Peel, Elizabeth, Flemington and Royal Parade meet with three different tram lines and a terrifying rite of passage for any young driver who emerges from the right lane into the left, then suddenly has to fly over to the right again, screaming in fear as your dad yells in frustration until, sweating and broken, you find yourself in the path of an oncoming tram and veer back onto your side, stopping at a red light and the Royal Women's, where you wouldn't mind a little lie down.

Smack bang in the middle of the Roundabout of Death is the giant pole and enormous Australian flag, surrounded by lesser minions usually displaying either a museum exhibit or the Grand Prix. I remember coming out from the Royal Children's Hospital, so pleased just to have escaped, and being struck every familiar time with how immense the flag is. I still imagine myself being wrapped up in it, and knowing there'd be so much room left over that I'd drown in navy blue and six white stars. Sometimes old blue would be replaced with a giant Aboriginal flag that dad or an uncle would grimly curse but that I secretly thought was way more interesting and used way cooler colours than ours.

City from Alexandra Ave : Cameron Zayec 2007

When I walk home from work, out of Shed 4 at the end of Victoria Harbour, to my back is a glorious view of the Bolte Bridge, awesome in its simplicity - two giant silver stiffies, constantly surrounded by swirling seagulls chasing moth jizz. The sun sets behind it and the silver reflects the purples and frosting pinks of the burning sky. The air smells of salt and a cool breeze always refreshes me at the height of excruciating summers. At night, the buildings are always lit with vibrant colours, as broadly skewed towards pretty as the dusk sky. Big, huge buildings, interesting from all angles, the ANZ with its bizarre twisty wind turbines. The Shredder over by the Citylink onramp is black, sharp and severe, like an evil turtle-hunting ninja. I like to listen to Bowie and look up as I walk to the tram terminal. That's what started this post. As I round a corner and pass the deceptively broad expanse of Flemington Raceway where creatures with much bigger penises than me are flogged by frustrated little men with much tinier penises than me, I can't help but spurt rhapsodic about Melbourne, all because I walked home listening to As The World Falls Down and thought that's the gayest damn thing. Awesome. And blue.

West Gate Bridge from the harbour : Cameron Zayec 2007

5 Common Irks CF Patients Put Up With

I have Cystic Fibrosis or CF. It's a disease far too many people know far too little about. Here are some of the irksome things I and many like me often put up with that are unique to people with diseases. (I know most of the time people are trying to help, but too bad!)

The Home Doctors
I don't have one doctor who looks after me, I have a team of them. Their leader is a specialist in CF and respiratory illness. She not only spent 10+ years at university, she went on to study and focus her considerable scientific knowledge on my specific disease. So when some taxi driver, tram passenger or dude with an arts degree gives me advice on my sickness, it really grates my cheese. Thanks pal, but I'm covered!

The Home Remedies
I'm on a litany of drugs that keep me healthy and alive. I take over 80 tablets a day.  Literally. There are pancreatic enzyme replacements extracted from porcine digestive tracts, inhaled genetic therapy that breaks down bronchial mucousal DNA and histamine inhibitors focused on gastric acid neutralisation. But yes, I'm sure your suggestion of cutting out milk and instead drinking honey and lemon in some warm water will do just fine.

Osteoporosis
So this one's kinda funny. Most people have no idea what CF is. Some have a hazy notion they may have pulled from a TV movie or a distant relative, and at best they remember the general thrust of the illness. Others, when I tell them I have cystic fibrosis, say, "What, the old lady bone disease?"

Cancer
When I was young, admission to hospital was always at the Royal Children's. I was there fairly regularly, once or twice a year for two or three weeks at a time, and one visit I was lucky enough to be there for the opening of the Starlight room. This was a mythical cave of fun: all the current consoles, books, TV, lego, toys...awesome. The CF kids from the two respiratory wards were allowed to be the first ones in, snuck through before the official opening. Our recreation officer took us all down, buzzed out of our brains with excitement. When we got there, she went ahead, spoke to someone then came back dejected. She informed us the cancer ward children had beaten us to the punch, and we weren't allowed in because TV camera crews were in there covering it. Devastating! That day I learned from the nurses that there's a rivalry between the CF kids and the cancer children, and it's a resource war: charity donations, funding, equipment, sympathy. So curse you cancer kids, curse you!

A Glass of Water
I cough. A lot. It's part of the deal, and I do it because my manky lungs are trying to get nasty, sticky mucous up and out. It's got nothing to do with my throat, my stomach or dehydration...yet everyone always seems to tell me - after hearing me cough a few times - that I should have a drink of water. Yeah, you're absolutely right! Water going into my stomach! That'll dislodge my phlegm, dry up my mucous, correct the genetic delta f508 mutation and put me right on track! Why didn't I think of it before!? All these years I could've been drinking water and curing my disease!

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That's it! Does anyone else have any I've missed? Are there any irks you suffer due to your own illness, or even because of a specific job you hold? Leave a comment!

How to Try and Fix the Australian Film Industry, Part 1

"It is going to be a long and arduous process to convince Australians that we should want to see our own films, but it will be easier if we remember that cinema's tenacious grip on our imagination came about because of its extraordinary capacity to entertain and astonish us" - Louis Nowra, The Monthly Dec 09-Jan 10 edition

Louis Nowra, internationally renowned playwright responsible for Cosi and The Temple, has written a fantastic article in The Monthly. In it, he explains how he forced himself to watch every Australian film that came out this year and then proceeded to identify what's wrong with the industry in his opinion. What he says is EVERYTHING I've been yammering on about within Green Rabbit and that some but not enough of my peers echo.

The filmmakers of this country are the biggest problem with the industry. The very root and soul of the business is the fact that it is not treated like a business and, even worse, that the storytellers are completely ignoring their audience. Green Rabbit was created in some large part so that one day we could make films and TV series that were awesome. What does awesome mean? For us, it means that the majority of Australia and hopefully the Western world would watch our films and go, "Wow! Cool! Let's watch that again, get it on DVD and talk about it at work or school with our mates." Our aim is to make films that succeed commercially.

This approach to movie making, which is certainly based on the Hollywood and even Bollywood approach to filmmaking as an industry, a business that trades in stories, is so foreign in Australia that it is seen in some corners as downright evil. The idea that a film should actually make money and, God forbid, generate profit is blasphemous to so many of our young contemporaries. Making rash generalisations, I happily paint a huge swathe of fellow graduates now, before and in the future with the colour of apathy towards these goals of commercial success. So very many film students want to change the world with their craft, which is great except they all seem to want to do it by making the same bleak, art house films that were made every year for the last decade and that failed as dramatically as the plots therein. And by fail I do indeed mean commercially.

A daydreaming pearl diver from the Northern Territory, torn in two by the expectations of his family profession and the love he feels for a young indigenous girl. A disaffected young man suddenly aswirl in the heady rush of inner city drug gangs tries to escape but is inevitably dragged down to a bloody death by his own needled up hand. A family ripped apart by the incest that has fed on their energies like a parasite all their life. These are the sorts of stories our filmmakers want to tell, are telling right now in cinemas across the country. And that's fine. I would never begrudge a creative person the chance to tell the types of stories they want to tell. My problem is that none of us seem to look around at the world outside of our heads and our tight little group of friends and see that these stories are NOT what our industry needs. Every member of the media, the faculty and the student body has a rant about why the industry sucks, but none of them seem to realise what industry means and how business plays a crucial role.

Industry requires money to be fed into equipment, infrastructure and manpower so as to stimulate production of profitable goods, the revenue of which can be fed back into the whole cycle. It's capitalism and like it or not, Australia is a part of that system. How on earth can an industry sustain itself when, as Mr. Nowra puts it, in 2009 only one film (Samson and Delilah) made its budget back out of the entire local crop, bringing in $3 million all up. According to Wikipedia, 34 Australian films were released this year. Screen Australia's website claims that in the 08/09 financial year, they budgeted $102 million for Screen Australia alone. As a whole, expenditure by federal agencies annually average $93.4 million per year on production and $3.59 million per year on project development. State agencies' expenditure annually average $14.02 million per year on production and $4.82 million per year on project development. Screen Australia's stats for Australian films' share of box office in 2008 states that Aussie films pulled in $35.5 million or 3.8% of the total box office for that year. While these figures don't come together as the perfect puzzle, it casts light on the very, very poor profitability of the Australian film as a business model.

How can an industry function like this? Quite simply, it can't. When a product doesn't make money then the only stream of income comes from government agencies and the odd independent financers, who, if they saw these statistics, would suddenly reschedule your meeting and never call you back. What results, if nothing changes, is an industry that limps along, feeding filmmakers who make movies nobody seems to watch. It's fair to say that Screen Australia and the rest of the funding bodies don't help matters by funding and encouraging films that dont become revenue stream, and though Screen Australia has started investing more heavily into the marketing of films, there needs to be a change that adjusts for the failure of our filmmakers to connect to audiences. But the gatekeepers of government money are not the biggest problem.

My greatest frustration is that a nasty and self-defeating attitude seems to prevail among filmmakers and critics: that the audience is stupid, that we're making excellent films and, as Margaret Pomeranz said, "if Australian audiences don't want to go and see them, stuff them." I put this very simple question to those who say our films are fine and that it's the audience that is the problem: if you're the only one who thinks your film is any good, is it? Is it really? If you're not making a film for a specific audience, then who are you making it for? Yourself? Your best mate? If so, fine, but do you really expect that anyone else will like the film? Do you really expect your industry to benefit from a film you and a handful of critics like but a large audience doesn't? Since when should we expect people to  purchase tickets for a product they don't like, just becasue of some vague sense of forced patriotism? Business, capitalism, industry - they just don't work like that.

This is the problem - movies are made for audiences. We're taught that in film school, but so many of us think that it's bullshit, that we're above that, that we're smarter than our audience, our teachers and every other filmmaker, especially those damn Yanks. And then every film we produce, year after year after year, tanks spectacularly while Titanic rakes in over $900 million in worldwide rentals and grosses $600 million in the USA alone under a year after release. Titanic cost $200 million to create and then made astronomical profits. Of course it's an extreme example, but if an Australian filmmaker made a movie that could achieve even one-fifth of the financial success of this extravagant, whimsical, melodramatic blockbuster, just think of all the arthouse films about pearl divers, street gangs and incestuous fathers that filmmaker could fund afterwards?

Comaplain all you want about capitalism's yoke but take note of how industry works. Blockbuster is not a dirty word and we need to scrub that mentality out of every single filmmaker and film student that populates this great nation of ours. Movies that appeal to the masses make money, and that money can then be pumped back into smaller films that meet more personal aims. In Hollywood, for every Requiem for a Dream there are fifty My Big Fat Greek Weddings. I'd like to see more graduates idolising Harvey Weinstein instead of Lars Von Trier, because while Von Trier makes powerful movies, they are of a certain type that right now, right here, would not help our industry grow and strengthen. The Weinsteins on the other hand constantly espouse the strategy of making large, profitable, blockbuster studio films to finance smaller, more modest, perhaps deeper projects. Hell, Kevin Smith says throughout both My Boring Ass Life and Silent Bob Speaks that you can make whatever movie you want so long as you don't lose the studio money. This finance-conscious attitude shouldn't be seen as a bad thing by filmmakers, because the naturally combative, anti-authoritarian attitude of the Australian in this respect does not work. Instead, see this as camaraderie, as all of us working together to better our circumstances by bringing money and renown to an ailing business. It's our job to stay in touch with our audience and know what they want, and then use our creative skills to meet those expectations as artfully and uniquely as our voices and visions will allow. We need to dispel the tired notion that we should be telling Australian stories and look at what exactly certain demographics of Australian - no, human audiences want to see. That is the charge of the communal activity known as storytelling. If the bearded elder sitting around a fire after a day on the hunt started recounting the existential crisis he experienced while trying to light the fire, instead of the bloody, titanic struggle of the day's kill, we may never have evolved the ability to talk. If we can make movies that people want to pay money to see, we'll be on the right track.

(Stay tuned for the second instalment on this topic)

References: 
My Boring Ass Life and Silent Bob Speaks, by Kevin Smith 
Get the Picture - Release of Australian productions - Cinema box office - Australian share
Get the Picture - Government funding: Summary of key data
Get the Picture - Release of Australian productions - Overview of cinema release
Australian films of 2009 - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia 
Titanic (1997) - Box office / business
Nowhere Near Hollywood, by Louis Nowra, published in Dec 09-Jan 10 edition of The Monthly

Chk-chk-FUCK OFF!

So the chk-chk-boom girl lies on camera about a shooting and gets a TV show deal. Meanwhile, Robin Brown spends time, money and passion working on skills pertaining to the craft of acting and presenting, going to a Uni and a private school of performance and he gets...overlooked. Robin Brown and a dizzying number of other hopefuls will come home from a job outside of their chosen profession in 2010 to watch Clare Werbeloff co-present her very own series set, appropriately enough, around scams. Network 9 announced The Real Hustle along with a handful of other half-baked or tired notion for its home-grown 2010 line-up. Included in the list are Hey, Hey It's Saturday on a Wednesday, season three of Underbelly (The Golden Mile) and AFP, a behind the scenes style show that seems to be in the vein of Border Patrol, but focuses on the activities of the Australian Federal Police.


http://www.theage.com.au/opinion/blogs/the-vulture/nines-2010-lineup-a-bit-chkchkcheeky/20091204-kaos.html

While Underbelly is catering for those with acting chops, Werbeloff must be a slap in the face for those who get another casting rejection after a night in a crummy late night waiting job. Coming home to flick on the telly and seeing someone who scammed her way on air to a show I predict will tank fairly quickly must sting. There's just so many Robin Browns, people with talent, skills and training who can bring appeal and a higher chance of longevity that get over looked for flash in the pan flukes and fads.

How Time Turns Me Sceptical

It's a sad day when you realise you have shifted to the sceptical side of the scale. The dawning of this realisation took a few weeks, but eventually the rays of a black sun were too hot to ignore. I am, for the most part, a sceptic.

I think I started as an idealist. Reading history and art at university, I saw the changes that occurred at the fist of student rallies and protests. This filled me with hope. I read the accounts of some great cultural revolution burning in the bellies of sixties-era hippies. My optimism suggested they merely failed where we could succeed. I was tricked by the wonderful escapism of cartoons and Disney movies that life was full of little treasures and beauties and that the common goodness of man was inherent in all things. I was lead to believe that in the end, we were all good people and if you trusted in that, you'd find people came through for you.

Then I grew up.

I'm in a shopping centre, speaking to a man who is offering us a great rate on paintballing. For a good price we get entry and 100 free paintballs. We buy 20 tickets, a full day's worth of fun and he gives us 10 extra for free. I plan to use them for my next birthday party. I wait a year, then call to book. I'm told the free paintball offer doesn't exist, that agents of the company aren't authorised to make deals, that I should have called the company within 7 days of purchase to check that what their agent said was true. "Why would I do that? Why would I call your company to ask if the offer your company gave me is real?" I ask if the offer was written down on their system. It wasn't. He doesn't work for them any more. They won't give me a refund. I have to pay $500 minimum to use the tickets I'd already purchased, that apparently only give me entry and equipment but no ammo. I manage to worm out of them 50 free paintballs per person I book, but I ask that this offer be emailed to me immediately so I have it writing. I receive the email. Once again I've been lied to - the offer is written as 50 free paintballs for the organiser only. Misrepresented to several times over, I look them up online to discover others have fallen for the same false promises, but because none of the agents ever put it in writing, there's nothing to be done. The only way to avoid the trap, we conclude, is to simply not trust anyone who offers anything verbally. We can't trust a man's word.

I'm standing under the large archways of the Victorian State Library. Two friends - a blonde girl and a muscular guy - are standing with me and we're chatting, sheltered from the light drizzle. It's lunch time and we're watching a drug addled couple arguing over junk that was sold under-value. Blondie is good natured, a helper, a friend of the earth. She wrings her hands at the escalating argument. The junkie starts yelling in the face of the junkette, whose beaten down despondency only enrages him further. Blondie steps out and tells the junkie to cool down, leave her alone, back off. The junkie springs up like a coiled snake, venom in his eyes and with no hesitation to unleash on my friend. Muscles is forced to act and steps in immediately, "You right mate?" he says with that undercurrent of force, that subtext of aggression that the street recognises as a thinly veiled threat. My tall, strong, far more alert friend's presence makes the junkie back down. He mumbles something and storms off. The junkette is left behind, picking through her ratty old hand bag. Blondie kneels down to help but junkette smacks her away. Fuck off. Mind your own business. Leave us alone. She lurches off after her abusive dealer boyfriend, bent against the pathetic cold drizzle.

I'm walking downhill at night. Two blocks from our house, my girlfriend and I are in formal wear after a premiere in the city. We've had a good run back home on public transport, but we're not usually caught out by nightfall. As we walk along a main road, one of the houses looks a little odd. The front door is ajar and the fly screen has been ripped. The lights are on but nobody seems to be home. I stop, "Just hang on a sec, baby. This looks a bit dodgy." We should probably move on, but I don't want to be that guy who does nothing while a house is robbed. I imagine the heartbreak of our flat being burgled. I try and get a better view inside..."Hey!" My girlfriend and I turn and see a tall teenage boy,wearing a hoodie up over his head. He's coming down an adjacent street, emerging from the blackness around the edges of working street lamps. We take off immediately, walking fast.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing," I say, putting an arm around her lower back, moving to cover her a little. "Just going home."
He picks up his pace, crossing the street. We walk even faster despite the notion it's a bad idea to show our fear. A million and one terrible things are crossing my mind. We reveal to each other later that both of us had grabbed a hold of a makeshift weapon in our pockets. Me: a pen. Her: keys.
"Is that your house?" he says, picking up pace, his hands disappearing into the pocket of his hoodie.
"No, we were just looking at houses to buy in the area," it's an uncertain tactic she tries, but inexplicably it works. He suddenly breaks off his line and starts retreating back across the street.
"Oh. OK."
We've never walked home as fast or looked over our shoulders as much in our lives. Because nothing actually happened, we're not sure what to do, so we simply tell the police our story over the phone, just in case something relevant emerges later. We spend most of the night questioning why we should ever put ourselves in that position again. Multiple bashings, stabbings, a marked increase in violence over matters far more trifle than catching a burglar. In the cold light of a computer screen, we read about the disaster that befell a good samaritan a suburb away, not more than two weeks prior. It's decided, begrudgingly, that we are now the kind of people who will do nothing to put themselves in harm's way while their neighbours are robbed.

Some events are tiny, seemingly mundane in the face of the great tradgedies of the world. Some are events you retell with a chill running down your spine. All of them build up, take their toll, put pressure on the ideals, hopes, trust and optimism. You live long enough and those tales of escape become tales of survival. You live long enough, it breaks.

Australian Racism

There's a prevailing attitude among the everyday people of Australia that the Hey Hey Jackson Jive skit was not in fact racist, and that it's a storm in a tea cup. Meanwhile, the rest of the world is displaying emotions that range from curious amusement, disappointment, right up to outrage that this skit appeared on live TV. The host Daryl Somers, Channel 9 and the lead performer himself, Dr Anand Deva have all apologised. All three have taken up the shield of ignorance, stating it was never their intention to offend.

There can be no denial the performers were in blackface, but maybe a lot of Australians don't truly understand what blackface is? Here's a definition from Wikipedia:

Blackface ... is a style of theatrical makeup that originated in the United States, used to take on the appearance of certain archetypes of American racism, especially those of the "happy-go-lucky darkyplantation" or the "dandified coon ".^[1] Blackface in the broader sense includes similarly stereotyped performances even when they do not involve blackface makeup. White blackface performers in the past used ... shoe polish to blacken their skin and exaggerate their lips, often wearing woolly wigs, gloves, tailcoats, or ragged clothes to complete the transformation. Stereotypes embodied in the stock characters of blackface minstrelsy played a significant role in cementing and proliferating racist images, attitudes and perceptions worldwide. In some quarters, the caricatures that were the legacy of blackface persist to the present day and are a cause of ongoing controversy. By the mid-20th century, changing attitudes about race and racism effectively ended the prominence of blackface makeup used in performance in the U.S. and elsewhere.

The Jackson Jive was a blackface performance. It was originally performed 2 decades ago, during the 1980s - a time, clearly, when racism was more present. Today, Australia lives in a globalised world with the United States one of its most dominant economic and military powers. In this world, our leaders are or should be trying to puch us further towards the centre of stage. Ours is a lucky country with potential and intelligence. But how can we be a part of the world and ignore our strongest ally's own advancements in civil rights? The nation now has a Nobel winning black President, in a land where blackface originated and where black people were lynched.

And here are five Australian men, an Australian TV network and a television show known as a national institution doing blackface. What. Were. They. Thinking? Whether they meant to offend or not, it was racist. What were the producers and the network executives thinking? Or, in what era were they thinking from? One of my biggest complaints has always been that the gatekeepers of Aussie arts and entertainment are old men with outdated, foolish attitudes to the world. No more clearly is this represented than when a TV exec or producer, someone who should be fully aware that YouTube, viral videos and the Internet means that what you put on a national screen has every possibility of being seen by the world for weeks to come, and who have chosen an American actor and singer to appear on the show, would then put blackface in front of the cameras.

It reminds me of your old uncle, in his late fifties, making all sorts of racist jokes at the Christmas dinner table. And you know he's (probably) not being malicious, he just honestly doesn't know any better. He's the product of his time. You might smile thinly or leave the room, but you find solace in the notion that maybe he says these things, but he'd never turn his back on a lynching or shoot an Aboriginal in a carpark if no-one was looking and he knew he'd get away with it. Growing up, this example was everywhere, with all the people I met in my outer suburb childhood. The attitude towards people of different skin was also hostile, negative, but thinly veiled and only ever in the privacy of homes, during family dinners or in front of the TV. But it was there, and I got the feeling it was in the majority of homes in Australia. I worried, most certainly justifiably, that it was something in me, from my own upbringing. And it made me sad.

Sad that as a nation, we stunt our own growth. I hope that this country can be a shining beacon, a nation who became strong without wars to liberate, but who used education and social responsibility to export both goodwill and knowledge along with traditional trade, to become recognised as a peaceful, happy, friendly, strong country of advancement and civility.

But let's look at the buffoons who stand in the way of that hope.

From the various articles I read online, the most infuriating parts came from the comments section, where these everyday Australians cemented the current world view of our nation (all quotes are sic):

K from Mackay 

Well, the fun police strike again Harry needs a uniform,baton and a whistle! i thought it was hilariously funny and i'm a black fella!

Luke from Melbourne 

Harry is not suited to Hey hey, hes too uptight, he needs a dose of reality and clearly has the typical USA mentality.

Scott from Adelaide

Where was the racism? The comment prior to the Jackson Jive coming on was "a tribute to the Jackson Five". So that, for all the people claiming it was racist, should have told them otherwise prior. Get over your arrogance. They respected Michael and his family, but you don't.

Certain Australian news sites also had user polls, asking variously if the sketch was racist, tasteless, funny. The results were either divided down the middle or skewed in favour of the notion that the skit was not racist or offensive. Some might say, "Well, see, the poll says no." I say, why do you even need to poll on that!? Of course it was racist, and the very fact that our nation can be divided on that in the first place is both sickening and sad.

Yes, the sketch was based on one that won Red Faces 20 years ago. That's the point! Shouldn't we be watching this from 20 years ago and thinking, "Oh god, that's embarrassing, we used to think that was OK." That sort of racism used to be acceptable, but now it's not. All that argument does is show that the arguer is stuck in some bizarre time warp where the rest of the world didn't realise they were being horrible to black slaves and started trying to repair the damage done. If thinking like an American means I find racism offensive, then someone give me a greencard! Do you really want to revel in that sort of thing? Do you really want to shrug off the evil connotations and horrid history of blackface by saying, "Nah, it was just a joke!" What sort of person does that make you?

Harry Connick Jr. was on the show and he did not like it. He stood up and demanded satisfaction. He did what thousands of his countrymen for hundreds of years did not do: he stood up for civil rights and against mocking and patronising and other instruments used to demean and keep down an entire race.

I think this whole debacle exposes that inherent racism in the Australian character. A racism born from isolation and cultivated by ignorance - a special sort of ignorance. For while we educate ourselves in science and medicine and technology, the education in social responsibility and global understanding is lackluster. Being clever in other areas lets us keep the racism hidden. Australians live in a multicultural country, but yet I say we're racists? It's a strange sort of racism, an amorphous blob that only takes shape when events like these pop up. It's racism by stealth. It's a bottom-up racism. Our leaders, our public people, they wear the badges of moral and social responsibility so that we don't have to. A politician openly encourages multiculturalism. An Australian citizen tolerates it, buts mocks it ruthlessly behind closed doors.

Look at the culprit, one Dr Anand Deva. I truly don't believe he fully understands what racism is when he says:

I am an Indian, and five of the six of us are from multicultural backgrounds and to be called a racist ... I don't think I have ever been called that ever in my life before. Anyone who knows us as a group, we are intelligent people, we are all from different racial backgrounds so I am really truly surprised.

When asked whether he would have performed the act in the US, he replied:

Absolutley not!

He just doesn't get it. He seems to think that just because he's Indian and his cohorts were from different backgrounds, then they are exempt from being racist - the idea of which is in itself racist! My point is, he doesn't seem to understand. A lot of Australians don't, and I think they need to be educated. Better, they have the internal drive to learn and educate themselves. Racism isn't something restricted to the borders of the USA. It isn't something that exists only between white Westerners and African descended black Americans. It's a worldwide plague that is very simple in its thinking, but lethal in application: to discriminate or negatively affect in any way one person or group of people based on the colour of their skin or cultural background, because it is different from your own. That is racism. That sort of thinking caused blackface to become popular, as white Americans slapped their knees during minstrel shows and remarked boorishly, "Oh ho! Look at that stupid nigger!" The Americans realised, finally, in the 1960-70s with civil rights movements and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr right up to now, with the first black President, that that sort of thinking was wrong at the most fundamental level of humanity.

And now, here in 2009, Australia shows a bunch of ignorant fools doing blackface.

I'm not saying we should surgically remove our sense of humour; that we should batten down the hatches and become a police state. I just think there are parts of our national character that need work, just as the most stable and respectable person is constantly striving to better him or herself. We are a great country, but to ever be as great as our potential, we need to be able to look at ourselves and make changes. We need to think more, to intellectualise, to drag ourselves out of the slow, sometimes backwards crawl of our social advancement. We need to look to those that have shown the way, and we need to be open to the idea that we can and have failed, but that we can learn from those mistakes and rectify our future.  Australia is a country of greatness, but it could be greater still. Isn't that something you want to be proud of? Isn't that something we can acheive?

Polanski Can Suck It

RT @droob: Way to be a dick, film industry http://bit.ly/8te6u

What the hell? He raped a kid! He gave up his freedom when he broke the law. So what, just because Polanski goes on to make great films, he should be granted immunity? What the fuck does cultural significance have to do with a rape case? And since when was a film festival a sacrosanct holy land where the law doesn't matter? By their logic, footballers should be allowed to break laws if they win a superbowl a few times, and should never be arrested on their way to a game.

I'm sorry, but Polanski got to avoid facing the justice system for decades. To bitch now is a slap in Lady Luck's face. Now he gets his day in court, and if found innocent, then there you go. If guilty, he committed a crime! And if Scorsese, Lynch, Woody and the gang don't like it, they can pay for his lawyers and appeals - but don't stand in the way of your country's justice system, you arrogant fucks.

Jeez. I mean, who the hell said these filmmaking pricks were in charge of extradition law and court procedure?

Oh, and to top it all off, Polanski’d already pleaded guilty but fled before sentencing, while appeals are still open to him anyway. He's a freakin' fugitive by the very definition of the word.

Writers Cracking It

There's been two posts online in as many days from established writers fed up with the practices of those around them. I like it. I think the profession of writing is considered a little too loosely by a lot of people. It's something you have to study, practice and understand, just like any other profession. Just because you can write an email doesn't mean you're a writer...yet.

I Will Not Read Your Fucking Script by A History of Violence screenwriter Josh Olson.

On The Asking Of Favors From Established Writers by John Scalzi

A bit of grumpiness from people who I think deserve to let it out a bit. Enjoy!

Let's Tear Apart Fine Art!

God I hate the language fine art uses to describe itself.

During the festival, clusters of Kurono clones wearing pale blue dresses, black wigs and glasses will intercept iconic sites throughout Melbourne, climaxing in an imploding mass of dance, abstraction, poise and presence. - from a press release for a FRINGE event

What does that MEAN??
Clusters. Fine. Not too terrible a choice. Obviously it could easily be replaced by groups, but I won't chastise them for trying to be a little more creative with their synonyms. Clusters seems to try and legitimise the whole thing by using a term most commonly used in science and mathematics. Sometimes I get the feeling the perverted language they use does this a lot, that maybe they're trying their damnedest to convince themselves they aren't useless members of society. Same can be said of the word clones, used instead of impersonators or costumes or some other more appropriate word.

Intercept. Intercept iconic sites? Surely they mean gather or congregate at? How exactly does one intercept an unmoving site? Intercept means to move into the path of something, to cut it off from its intended destination. Maybe Federation Square is going to be transforming into a tan-tile-o-bot and go for Government House, and these Kurono clones will intercept and engage it in a vicious cock fight to take it down? Or, maybe someone's trying to inject more excitement into the proceedings than there actually will be...

Climaxing. People in cos-play congregating around Flinders Street Station results in the sexual, frenzied or very highest point of the event? Usually it results in a great deal of business people weaving around rather dispirited looking emos and goths sitting on the steps. Usually it's just annoying. Will the dancers be writhing around on the ticket machines perhaps?

Imploding. Mass. Why didn't they just use exploding? Imploding means completely the wrong thing here. It's so clearly an attempt to sound smarter, more pretentious. That's the root essence of this stupid fine arts language. It's as if they wrote the sentence in normal English, then flicked open a thesaurus and grabbed the third suggestion for each adjective or verb. You can't have an imploding mass of dance, abstraction, poise and presence. How does that work? Implode means to burst inwards. Will all the dance moves be focussed predominantly on thrusting towards the centre of a circle? If mass implodes, it sucks itself in. A mass of dance? That's an odd collective noun. Unless they mean it religiously, in which case, I see a Japanese bishop holding a communion that blows up and makes the church fall in on itself. An imploding mass of poise? Poise is equilibrium or dignified balance. For it to implode negates the meaning altogether. Presence? An imploding mass of presence - presence is such a passive noun, I can't wrap my head around how it would implode. Seriously people. Think before you type. Keep it simple. Say what you mean, not what you think makes you sound more intelligent. You just come off foolish.

Hire someone who knows how to use words, and you stick to choreography and having anime characters blow you backstage.

*note: any mistakes I made were on purpose and for sardonic irony, of course!

Hey Melbourne Comic Shops, What's The Deal?

So I've been toying with the idea of getting into comics, as in getting myself subscribed to a couple of books instead of buying the trade paperback collections every now and then. I wasn't sure how much they costs each and what's out there, heck, I wasn't even sure how it works exactly. To remedy this, I figured my best course of action would be to find one of the websites of a Melbourne comic book shop and see what the dealio might be.

I couldn't find a single one. Not one of the handful of Melbourne comic shops seemed to have a site. Please, if I'm wrong or missed them, link me in the comments ASAP.

I found it incredibly amazing and rather stupid that these stores, in the 2000s, don't have sites. What the hell? I mean, they've got it tough as it is. Comic shops don't do very well down in Oz - I mean, they could be doing a lot better, y'know? But they sure as hell aren't helping themselves by not catching up with the rest of the world, both business and personal worlds, and getting freakin' websites! Even a free blog or a freewebs page - sheeit, even a google or yahoo page.

Here's the thing guys - you delightful comic store owners out there - I was all like, "Awesome, I'm gonna give you guys money 'cause I wanna subscribe to books in your store, thus willingly linking myself to you guys as a customer for months, maybe even years!" and I couldn't even find you guys, couldn't even find a way to contact you, except via phone. I wanted to connect with you guys, but I couldn't. If I wasn't so damn dogged, you might've lost yourselves a customer.

Instead, I'm going to offer some help. My biznads, Green Rabbit, does killer websites. We even set up online stores and cool ways for customers to interface. It would be fun setting up some websites for these guys, so I'm a-gonna contact them and try to get them online.

Awesome!

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