JSYL

The IF Project

2010-04-25T18:57:00.000-07:00

(Image: James Kozianski)

In 100 days, I will launch the first issue of a new online magazine called (you guessed it) ‘If’.

The magazine will explore three major subjects: global development, environment and society/culture in an ongoing attempt to figure out how the world works and how to make it work better.

‘The IF Project’ is simple: to make good on this promise, and to document how I will go about doing it.

Click here to read more and to see where I'll be spending most of my time from now on.

Follow me on Twitter @JaneSYLee!

My Portfolio

2010-03-09T17:35:00.000-08:00

My posts here have been fairly ad hoc of late, because I'm currently at a crossroads, and have been busy figuring out what my next step will be in the Big Bad World of Journalism. For a long time, I've used this blog as a notice board for my newly published articles that I want to brag about, and for insights into the experiences I've had working for different media organisations along the way.

But in case you were wondering what 'kind' of journalist I really am, I've finally put together a coherent online portfolio to showcase my published works. Check it out here.

(Image: This Next Blog)

Demo

2010-02-08T18:47:00.001-08:00

Here is an audio selection of news stories I have produced and programs I have presented on university radio stations 2SER (University of Technology, Sydney) and Smoke Radio (University of Westminster).

It covers a broad range of weird and wonderful subjects, from critics of the Dalai Lama to fans of the 'Asian Justin Timberlake'.

I'm very open to any feedback on how I might improve this - let me know what you think in the comments or via Twitter.

The Recession Generation*

2010-02-07T22:56:00.000-08:00

By Jane Lee

Everyone is looking for a saviour to pull the global economy through what is expected to be a painfully drawn out recovery, and fast.

Many hope that the light at the end of the tunnel will be a more stable global financial system than ever before.

“I think a certain amount of realism has now come into what the recovery will actually mean. But we cannot use the performance of 2004-2007 as a benchmark for what economies are going to get back to. That is not sustainable,” says S&P Asia Pacific Chief Economist Subir Gokarn.

“Policy responses and the whole design of an exit strategy and maintenance have to use a benchmark of what is actually sustainable,” says Gokarn.

(Photo: newgeography.com/)

If excessive risk and expenditure and the subsequent plummet in consumer confidence levels fuelled the worst economic crisis in living memory, then private spending is surely the best place to look.

“Global private spending is going to be critical and we’re still at the very early stages of seeing the transition from dependence on government spending to private spending.

Any wrong move on policy - e.g. interest rate hikes and so on - managing that, keeping that in check is a critical challenge for policy makers,” he says.

The Financial Saviour

But who is the ideal consumer? As the key players that drove the boom shift and those all- pervading financial centres of London and New York crumble, so too does the power parity held by their consumers for the global economy.

“I think we can be very confident that the US consumer, the big 16 trillion dollar monster, is not going to save the world in the next few years,” says Westpac’s global head of economics, Bill Evans. “What we don’t know is what role the 4 trillion dollar child who is growing rapidly - the Chinese consumer - is going to play,” he says.

Yet the thirst for new altars at which to worship and cities in which to invest big, and first, is palpable.

“There needs to be a leverage point for capital raisings, for administration, corporate head offices simply administer that hemisphere. And the question then becomes: what city will that be?” says KPMG director and business forecaster Bernard Salt.

China and India, the most populated countries in the world, with the fastest growing economies, are, at face value, ideal candidates. Salt predicts the new financial centre of the world will spread itself across a number of cities across Asia including Shanghai, Singapore and Hong Kong.

“The centre of gravity of world business for 50 years has probably been the mid-Atlantic. By the middle of the 21^st century the centre of gravity will probably move closer to Australia,” he says.

Yet Evans argues that that Asian economies’ history of protectionist policies predicate that they will not be prepared to save anyone.

“I think they will feel that they’ll worry about going back into the risks associated with the last Asian crisis when too much capital went into them too quickly and they ended up with a big problem and I think that they will fight against that, and that is a big disappointment to me,” he says.

East Meets West

But there are still hopes that Eastern consumers may be able to offset the present weakness in Western consumers and rebalance the global economy and global financial system.

ANZ’s head of Australian Economics and Interest Rate Research, Warren Hogan, views the world’s young people as ready soldiers in the global war against future financial downturn. He argues we may be able to shift the potential for productivity growth of younger populations from the East to the West.

“India is actually in an incredibly positive phase; we’re already seeing the results of this. Can we manage to approach these demographic issues from a global perspective?” says Hogan.

“Can the young people of India get into these other economies, help take some of the pressure off the financial position, increase natural rates of growth, give themselves opportunities and so on?” he says.

There are currently five main pools of young people in the world – India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Vietnam, and to a lesser extent, Indonesia. But Gokarn says none of these countries are near developed enough to be able to pull off such a massive feat.

“If you’re talking about the prospects of labour movement and if that could be the last major pillar of fully integrated world trading systems obviously that’s far away. I don’t think that’s at all realistic in the current situation and circumstances,” he says.

“But I do see the prospect of a lot of the manufacturing activity that is now centred in China moving to this pool, provided that these countries are able to do the things necessary to attract their investment with its infrastructure and education etc. There, I think, is the large gap,” says Gokarn.

Words Into Actions

The task of simultaneously raising global employment will be a difficult one in the current economic climate.

“Until we have that productivity again, the ability of this pool to support at least a baseline level of global consumption [and to produce a workable strategy] is going to be a challenge,” says Gokarn.

Shifting large labour markets will require economic policies that stimulate consumer confidence to these pools. Hogan says the first step is to introduce domestic incentives that invoke a sentiment of stability in the masses.

“The problem is we’ve got to stop these people saving. The governments have got to give them a retirement incomes policy, a social safety net and, for the broader development of these economies, transparency development institutional arrangements - all of these things have got to continue to develop and finally fast track, particularly in China,” he says.

Losing battle

But S&P New York Chief Economist David Wyss says that even if an economic saviour could be found, we are fighting a losing battle.

“It’s not going to work. At best this will delay the problem because even in India the birth rate is going down to pretty much zero population growth levels. And the dependency ratios are rising much too rapidly,” Wyss says.

The problem of ageing populations is shared by a number of countries around the world, with the ratio between workers and retirees in the United States - currently at 5:1 – expected to fall to 3:1 in twenty years’ time. The situation is worse for Japan, Italy and France where it will be down to 2:1.

“Any way you look at it that’s a huge burden on the working population. There is only one cure for this: figure out how to stop getting older. And I haven’t figured that out yet,” says Wyss.

If we genuinely want to ‘save’ the global economy from future crises of a similar magnitude to the one that is only now starting to subside, there might not be any quick fixes.

“The long term issue is restoring balance back to the huge international and domestic imbalances that are in the market that really created this problem,” says Wyss.

“That’s not going to be easy either politically or economically. It means learning to live within your means in the case of the United States, and learning to live up to your means in the case of China. And neither government is quite willing to consider that yet.”

*Title inspired by Bernard Salt's speech by the same name. This was an article I wrote for Insto late last year that didn't quite make the cut.

Moment in London...on Commercial Street

2010-01-03T06:42:00.000-08:00

It was just another overcast Sunday at first. Nothing out of the ordinary. We braved the cold (as all Londoners must to enjoy any semblance of a social life for three quarters of the year), exchanging the warmth of the apartment for the warmth of a nearby Vietnamese restaurant (and pho noodle soup).

On the way back we ducked in quirky clothes stores-slash-coffee houses and out of the drizzle which threatened to turn into real rain every time we dared to make another pit stop. But there was one more stop left to make before escaping into centrally heated comfort once more...a 'free shop'.

On Commercial Street.

My first thought was that anything being offered for 'free' in a city as expensive as London had to be taken up. Or at least made time for.

My brother told me not to get too excited - there wouldn't be anything worth taking. And he was right - a few old recorded TV movies on VHS tapes without covers, mouldy clothes in a damp cardboard box and some dog-eared books that probably wouldn't even appear in a garage sale were haphazardly displayed around the 'shop'. More interesting was its message, and reason for being.

("Modern society is wasteful and destructive. Throughout the process of mass consumption we are exploiting humans, animals and the environment. Food is shipped halfway across the world only to be abandoned in supermarkets or household bins. It is the financial system that allows this to happen. While we base everything on monetary value without considering other costs incurred we will continue to live in a society of waste + (sic) overconsumption and inequality.")

In one corner was a sign calling for volunteers to sign up to mind the 'shop' so that it could continue to exist.

I guess what they were really looking for were people to guard the writing on the wall.

Sustainability Magazine

2009-12-04T05:48:00.000-08:00

On the first day of the UN's Copenhagen Climate Change Conference I thought it might be wise to spruik an environmental magazine I am currently working on.

Sustainability Magazine covers both scientific and political news on climate change and environmental conservation and sustainability issues, with a particular focus on Australia.

I am the deputy editor for the second issue of the mag, which will include analysis of Copenhagen and its aftermath, and be available on news stands and online early next year.

In the meantime, I'm helping manage the magazine's online component, which aims to boost discussion and analysis alongside daily news updates. Follow 'Sustainablogger' on Twitter, read daily blogs on our website and become our fan on Facebook.

You can also find a recent blog post I wrote for Sustainability summarising the recent political drama in Australia (which led to the failure of the Government's emissions trading scheme and the installation of a new Opposition leader) here.

Moment in Lisbon...in the square

2009-12-03T05:18:00.001-08:00

E-Day for the Emissions Trading Scheme

2009-11-30T15:40:00.000-08:00

What a difference a week makes in Australian Federal politics.

Just five days before the international climate conference in Copenhagen, two leadership spills for the Opposition in as many weeks have produced a new leader who, unlike the old one, doesn't believe in anthropogenic climate change, doesn't support the emissions trading scheme (ETS) aimed at combating it and, on a totally unrelated conservative note, is also anti-abortion.

The surprising vote for Tony Abbott as the new leader of the Liberal party yesterday dashed all hopes that Australia would act on climate change by passing legislation on an ETS before Copenhagen.

The Senate is expected to (finally) vote on the proposed ETS this morning - a scheme which seems to have been completely forgotten amidst all the commotion, in more ways than one.

So I thought it might be timely to post an article I wrote recently for agricultural magazine 'Agribusiness Australia' as a reminder of what is really at stake.

'Meat & Emissions' asks one of the country's most carbon-intensive industries how it plans to reduce its own emissions, the extent of its obligation to the world, and the pressures it faces as the race to slow the effects of climate change heats up.

Click on the pages to enlarge them.

Moment in Lisbon...on the beach

2009-11-30T03:56:00.000-08:00

Moment in Budapest...by the river

2009-11-26T04:20:00.001-08:00

(Photo by Phil Lee)

Another great photo taken on my camera by my brother. We were exhausted after a day spent walking the length and breadth of both Buda and Pest. We were waiting for the sun to set over the Danube River.

I collapsed on a bench by the river and, tired of playing tourist, proceeded to play with my mobile phone, ignoring the view. He was the only one with enough energy to continue meandering around the series of statues that lined the riverbank, snapping away as the light quickly and quietly faded around us.

Moment in London...waiting for friends

2009-11-26T04:02:00.000-08:00

The realisation that this was a slogan for a popular chain of stores that sell art supplies didn't detract from how fitting it was that this bold statement should be so casually displayed in central London.

Islamic Finance: The Crescent Moon Rises in the West

2009-11-14T23:22:00.000-08:00

The global financial crisis has renewed interest in Islamic finance and the possibility of greater integration with the conventional financial system in Australia.

Islamic banks' emphasis on strong asset backing for loans make their bonds attractive to low-risk investors and offer more stable alternatives to volatile debt instruments that prevailed in the lead-up to the crisis.

Read the rest of the article below - click on the pages to enlarge them.

Little known fact - one of my favourite uni subjects was Islamic law. It's easy to summarily dismiss (heh, in-joke) a foreign legal system as inherently invalid. It's easier still to parrot criticism of religion - politicised by extremists, exploited by mainstream media and demonised by political rhetoric - rather than arrive at our own informed conclusions.

Now that words like 'marketable' and 'profitable' can be bantered about Islamic law in an Australian context, perhaps many will actually try to do what is so much harder - understand.

Climate activism goes dark green

2009-11-12T16:04:00.000-08:00

"Climate change may become as popular as asbestos or tobacco in Australian courts as individuals start to feel its effects, says the Environmental Defender's Office."

Remember how excited I was when my first cover story was published? I decided then and there that I could definitely get used to the feeling, if I was ever lucky enough to land myself another any time soon.

Well, this month, I got lucky again. A story on climate litigation I originally wrote for Sustainability Magazine has made the front cover of the latest issue of financial news magazine Insto.

Here is the article in full - click on the pages to enlarge them.

Only subscribers have access to the magazine online, but for a sneak peek at other features in this issue, click here.

Tweet Tweet!

2009-11-12T15:28:00.000-08:00

Artwork by: http://creativenerds.co.uk/

While I'm moseying on down this path of shameless self promotion, I should probably direct you to the nifty new widget on the right hand side column of the page (the 'Column of Shame') where you can now see up-to-the-minute tweet-sized updates of my life throughout the day. If you find them particularly interesting, you can even follow me on Twitter (where you will also find a lovely photo of me when I was 3) here.

Do you KNOW who I AM?

2009-10-28T02:21:00.000-07:00

"I don't know how to put this but I'm kind of a big deal."

Check out my first contributor bio (for Insto) here.

Moment in Sydney...on the street

2009-10-28T01:58:00.000-07:00

(Photo by Rikzi: Flickr)

Overheard suits talking during rush hour (5.30pm, Wednesday):

"Just so you know, her Dad has a machete."

Moment in Budapest...at the Roman baths

2009-10-08T07:56:00.001-07:00

Mojitos on deserted islands are so passe. THIS is exactly what I want to be doing when I retire:

(Photo by Phil Lee)

Soaking in 100-year-old Szechenyi Baths all day with my friends...while playing chess. Ohh yeah.

Moment in Budapest...in the park

2009-10-06T11:48:00.000-07:00

Want to try an interesting (and inexpensive) romantic gesture? Go to the love tree, where you can (literally) lock your love up and throw away the key in the nearby Danube River.

It's terribly cliche, and probably much more impressive in other places around the world, but it's still kind of a fun idea, and obviously very popular.

I found the different interpretations of what the lock itself might represent the most interesting part of all.

(Wedlock)

I especially liked the combination padlocks, which our guide said highlighted Hungarians' sense of creativity, and I guess, pragmatic nature. Because after all, "What if you break up?"

Moment in Budapest...on the strip

2009-10-04T14:23:00.000-07:00

Moment in London...in the flat

2009-10-04T13:19:00.000-07:00

In a flat inhabited by a lawyer and two bankers, you wouldn't be surprised to find clothes racks of freshly pressed suits, button-down shirts and shelves of expensive shoes (pumps, boots, trainers, you name it). Being off Brick Lane, an assortment of so-trendy-it-hurts hats and t-shirts wouldn't go astray, either. But this??

In London, anything goes. No one would even look twice.

Moment in London...at the Tate

2009-10-03T09:35:00.000-07:00

In one corner of an experimental manga exhibition in the Tate Modern (directly opposite the IKEA DIY suicide kit, in case you're interested - strange, I know.) there is a window that faces out onto the Millennium Bridge. It has a filmy grey cellophane-like paper covering the entire length of it, save one tiny crack, through which a tiny beam of sunlight filters through.

My brother walks down that bridge every day on his way to work, and this is what he sees:

(Photo by Phil Lee)

On the road again...

2009-10-02T14:02:00.000-07:00

I love travelling.

The week leading up to your departure is often the most exciting. Friends you haven't gotten around to catching up with for a while are suddenly clamouring for a chance to hang out before you leave, as though there's suddenly emerged a 'need' or 'real reason' to put good intentions into action.

People you haven't spoken to in ages are suddenly anxious to find out where you're going, why, and for how long? You start making plans with those on the other side of the world eager to pick up the friendships you once left behind.

Your 'to do' list has stretched to double its normal size, and for a time you shove the thought of physically leaving at the corner of your mind. No time to get excited just yet, you think, every time you're tempted to stop to smile. Finally it comes to packing - translation for: throw a 20kg pile of clothes into a suitcase and hope for the best.

Finally, you pause for breath. I stared at my open suitcase, and the sight brought back to life the reality of what I was about to do. I was going back to London. The place where this blog really began.

Last year, London was where I made so many revelations, both personal and professional, and so many promises, and plans for the future. In the year that has passed since then much has changed, promises broken, plans fallen apart. Yet it has always been, as a result, the place I have looked to for greener pastures.

After all, I haven't been "stuck somewhere between Sydney and London" for no reason at all.

I had booked my tickets earlier this year in an attempt to make the return pilgrimage, to salvage something from it all, or at the very least, to see what the place still has to offer.

Oh, the joys of impermanence. The sheer luxury it entails. Freedom always seems to come shrouded in impermanence, beneath the subtlest of disguises, at the very best of times. Travelling provides you with the perfect alibi. You are 'busy travelling' and therefore legitimately unavailable, indefinitely. Your right to disconnect from the world you know, is validated as soon as you shut your suitcase.

That wish you often make - when buried in commitments, when staring at a line of endless traffic, when running on 9-5 urban autopilot - to cast off the shackles of familiarity and identity is finally granted once you step through the automatic doors of the international terminal. You become nobody to everybody as soon as you turn your back on your loved ones and disappear beyond the sign aptly labelled 'Departure Gates'. For a moment, you are itching to turn and run back. And then you are overwhelmed with the freedom that comes with the possibility that you might never return. It crowns you with your very own halo.

And as great as I'm sure coming home will be, yet again, that restless part of me that longs to flee was awakened with a ticket and a suitcase. I've been gone about two weeks now, and am currently somewhere in greater Europe. Snapshots from my trip so far are coming up soon.

Stay tuned.

APRA and the NZ PM dispense lessons learnt

2009-08-23T19:18:00.000-07:00

Moment in the Gold Coast: by the pool

2009-08-16T15:55:00.000-07:00

My weekend in a nutshell.

Money in the Pipes

2009-08-05T22:19:00.000-07:00

The title of this post was my original headline for the below article I wrote for Insto on PIPEs (private investments in public equity). Don't worry, about a month ago I had no idea what they were either.

Golden handshakes and high fives all round.

2009-08-05T22:14:00.000-07:00

Remember when everyone was up in arms over the scandalous amounts of money executives were supposedly paid in termination bonuses after companies like AIG and Pacific Brands crashed? "Typical. One law for the rich, another for the poor," our production manager lamented somewhat gleefully upon seeing the headlines in the morning news.

Well, it was around that time of general public disgust that I wrote my first story on executive salaries, and got my first glimpse into the weird and whacky industry of remuneration - that's right, I did say 'industry'. For it was then that I discovered that there are thousands of suits who make a living determining how much other people should be paid which all of a sudden made the phrase 'executive remuneration' a much more interesting one.

Think about it - how do you go about rewarding intrinsically unquantifiable amounts of 'talent'? It's the seemingly random sprinkles of entrepreneurial stardust that can turn a music box into an iPod generation, a daydream into a household brand, not to mention churn out billions of dollars in profit for shareholders and employees alike. But on the other side of the coin, many argued that the incentive of overly generous short term bonuses encouraged the equally 'entrepreneurial' risks many took that have so contributed to the ongoing effects of the global financial crisis.

Painting all executives who are paid astronomically more than you will ever be as the greedy bastards you wish you were, becomes all the more difficult when you learn that remuneration packages in recent years have tended to make it more worthwhile to take those risks and earn massive bonuses, because base salaries have in many cases actually been pretty low in comparison. The crudest (and largely inaccurate) metaphor I could use to illustrate this point is that of a McDonalds cashier working for a lowly $3 an hour, who gets paid a grand every time they throw a huge rock into oncoming traffic and miss all the cars. Sure, there's a huge risk some of those pesky drivers might get hurt in the process, but who wouldn't, given the opportunity?

Compound all of that with the problem of the packages used to pay execs, which are complex little bastards in and of themselves, and don't necessarily guarantee that compensation will be paid in full, if at all. As Heidi Mason, former CEO of Enron's Australian branch (the well performing, honest one) explained to me after the Pacific Brands scandal:

"PacBrands is the perfect example of the most ill-advised media that you’ve seen in a long time. Everything that is quoted about the way Sue’s salary has changed completely ignores the fact that she’s gone from a Divisional General Manager role to a CEO role. The number they’re quoting on the low side is what she was entitled to in a completely different role 12 months ago. The number they’re quoting on the high side includes all aspects of her variable compensation that she’s not necessarily going to get."

Despite all these enlightening moments of discovery, I was still pretty green and uncertain about the ins and outs of it all when I attended the FINSIA breakfast conference on remuneration. I was so nervous I spilled coffee everywhere, and felt the need to explain to anyone I made small talk with that even though I didn't have a name tag and looked about 12, I really was allowed to be there. All attempts to at least appear as nonchalant and confident as the journalists, remuneration specialists and executives around me officially went to the dogs when a woman asked me if I was a 'rem manager too' and my face went completely blank. Rem. Remuneration. Who would've guessed, right?

Thankfully, some good came of it. I wrote an article on the conference which was published in the Insto newsletter, and after a lot more research, gave an overview on all rem reforms in Australia in this article for the magazine:

You'll notice it's very different to my first article on this subject, which had been timidly ridden with long quotes for fear of making any ludicrous conjectures of my own. I've found that financial reporting involves a LOT more assumed knowledge and analytical skill than I'd previously assumed. So I'm pretty proud of this one. :)

First cover story: Anti-Trust the System

2009-08-05T21:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, the first copies of this quarter's issue of Insto arrived in the office.

The understated tradition of basking in the glow of the fruit of the last few months' hard work usually lasts for about 15 minutes, and always seems to pass too quickly. First, there's the squeal or yelp from the first person to notice the big brown box entering the premises (This is usually me. Sometimes it's a cross between a squeal and a yelp).

Then there's the eager handing out of copies to the editorial team - the graphic designer carefully scrutinises everything from the colour of the cover to the glue on the spine of the magazine. The contributors lean back in their chairs smugly and flip through the contents, looking out for their articles before seeking each other out to pat themselves on the back once again for a job well done. Self-serving compliments like: "That turned out really well!" and "I really loved the way that page came together" are exchanged, before everyone returns to their respective desks and reluctantly puts their copies just out of their line of vision so they can continue their work.

This issue focused on the future of banking beyond the global financial crisis, with a series of lead articles covering the potential growth of different areas of the financial system. I wrote an article - "Anti-Trust the System" - about the future regulation of Australia's major four banks, which are predicted to grow even bigger on the back of government guarantees.

This is my first cover story. Cover stories are significant because they are of the few selected to feature on the front of a magazine to entice readers to open it, and are therefore usually the first to be read. I never imagined that my first cover story would be about financial regulation. I mean, it wasn't so long ago that I was buying magazines for cover lines like "How to get great cheekbones in 10 minutes". (I knew it could only lead to a single page on blush, foundation sticks and bronzers but I decided the editor's gall deserved $7 if nothing else.)

It was particularly fortuitous that my first cover line was featured on issue #11 (my lucky number), the cover design a throwback to the 1980s Michael J Fox film trilogy "Back to the Future" - the first of which is one of my favourites.

My article starts in a similarly colourful way, and even features a cartoon image I personally selected for the spread. Who said finance was boring, eh?

You can read the story below. Click on the images to enlarge them.

Moment in Sydney...on the train

2009-07-31T02:33:00.000-07:00

While waiting for the train, these two caught my eye. The man was crouched down next to (what I assumed was) his child's pram, so that they were almost the same height. He rested his chin in his hand and locked eyes with the baby, a faint smile on his face. There he stayed, mesmerised, until the train arrived. They looked to be having the most intense conversation humanly possible with only the aid of their facial expressions. The man looked at his son as though he were listening to him explain a concept so profound it required all of his attention.

I found myself thinking that the child will never remember this moment of utter adoration.

Moment in Rome...at the Colosseum

2009-07-29T03:51:00.000-07:00

I soon realised that this is Kat's standard awe-struck pose. She has here converted her love of sun to her love of all things Ancient Rome and the movie Gladiator.

Moment in Rome...at the airport

2009-07-29T03:12:00.000-07:00

After three weeks of grey sky in dreary London, Kat felt the need to remind herself of what sunlight felt like again.

Moment in Sydney...at the bus stop

2009-07-17T08:23:00.000-07:00

Random man: What background are you?

JSYL: Malaysian-Chinese.

Random man: Ohhh!! Like Poh!

JSYL: .........Yeah. Just like Poh.

[Photo: http://1.bp.blogspot.com/]

Journalism crush

2009-06-25T22:30:00.000-07:00

You probably know by now that I love a good dysfunctional relationship metaphor. Today I read one in a blog that likens journalists' passion for their profession to an "inappropriate relationship".

I disagree with its inference that, like most relationships of that nature, it's inevitable that all journalists will move on and find jobs in fields that take a lesser toll on our emotions and financial situations.

It's probably because I'm a hopeless romantic, or because I'm still in the 'honeymoon phase' that I'm pretty sure this one will work out, even if the others don't; that provided our love can survive the worst economic crisis in living memory, journalism is a keeper.

After all (cheesy as this may sound) a relationship is only worth having if you'd be prepared to go to hell and back to make it work out.

Props to Seattle-based journalist Linda Thomas for tweeting this to my attention. :)

"We are not bear food"

2009-06-24T03:03:00.000-07:00

I am posting this video for all the journalists who have at one point or another been chewed out by their editor or producer about a job poorly done.

What should've been a quick and only slightly amusing story on a bear sighting in a suburban backyard goes slightly awry:

Blog for thought...

2009-06-23T06:47:00.000-07:00

Just to wind up (or add fuel to) the little debate we had earlier about the fine line between quantity and quality in this so-called new media world of ours, here is a blog post I stumbled on the other day by San Diego journalist Justin McLachlan that I think sums it up perfectly.

Moment in Sydney...walking to work

2009-06-19T22:17:00.000-07:00

It was around 8am when I took these photos on my way to work. It's amazing how many clocks there are in Sydney that stop working on a regular basis. While it can also be frustrating if you're running late somewhere (as I usually am) and really need to know what time it is, it's still kind of fun to walk through different timezones, as though time does not, or should not, exist.

2009-06-08T19:09:00.000-07:00

---
The second story I've ever written on executive remuneration (see the first here), this was published in Insto's newsletter, which is emailed to all the magazine's subscribers. I'm currently working on an extended version of this article for Insto's next issue, keep a look out for it on my blog if you're at all interested in the future fallout for once 'untouchable' executives.

More on how this story came about later. Night kids!

Free Trade?

2009-05-26T23:42:00.000-07:00

About a month ago I began working on an article about Myanmar (Burma) for trade magazine Australasia ASEAN Business. The mag explores the way member states will be impacted by the recently signed AANZFTA, a multilateral free trade agreement that will drastically reduce trade barriers between member states over a region worth about $US2.7 trillion in GDP.

I agonised over this article for a long time. At first I struggled to find any sources to speak candidly about Burma's military regime for fear of reprisal. But I did manage to speak to a number of people well-versed in the economic and humanitarian plight of the region, and was happy with the end result. But it didn't end there. Having been commissioned by the ASEAN Australia Business Council, the final product was toned down for obvious reasons. But I still think it sheds light on some interesting issues that remain relevant almost fifty years since the military regime first came into power.

The Agreement is set to come into force this month.

"Burma's status as a signatory to AANZFTA would appear at odds with the diplomatic stance of the broader international community. But what impact will the agreement actually have on the Union of Myanmar?"

Read the rest of the article on page 126 of the ezine here.

The Pep Talk - Part 1

2009-05-20T16:54:00.000-07:00

I met him outside a train station on a Friday night. Almost a year had passed since our last run-in, outside uni production suites, in between ABC and SBS cadetship applications. A brief hug and an exchange of knowing smiles proved that the bonds of Journalism school remained intact.

"Where to, coffee or a[n alcoholic] drink?" he asked.
"Up to you," I said, instinctively accommodating.
He cocked his head to the side, treading the waters of my unusually courteous behaviour with some trepidation: "Coffee then?" he suggested.
He was right to hesitate. It's Friday.The sudden realisation somersaulted it's way through my oesophagus, landing in my stomach with a dull thud.
"We're journalists now. We need to drink," I said, firmly steering his elbow around the shiny puddles that littered the busy road before us, and into the comfort of the nearest pub.

Over a few G+Ts we exchanged war stories of our first 'journalism' gigs, both now fully fledged members of the Business-to-Business industry, both trying to justify our roles at our respective companies by referring to ourselves and each other as if we belonged to some strange breed of that elusive creature we call 'journalism'.

Y'see, we both graduated under the flawed if not false impression that unless we were employed at a prominent media organisation (which, given the small size of the Australian media industry reduces the pool of potential employers to the Sydney Morning Herald, the Australian, the ABC and SBS), or were at the very least reporting news every day, we could not consider ourselves real journalists, regardless of how much we'd like to.

As the night wore on, the conversation gave way to bitching and moaning about how hard it all was. We had known it would be 'hard' but not 'this hard' to find our dream jobs. (This, just shy of three months out of university.) At one point, my friend drew his line in the sand, "I'm applying for ABC and SBS again this year. And if it doesn't work out, I'll start thinking about jobs in DFAT (the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade)."

It could just have been the two G+Ts, or perhaps the Cadillac Cosmopolitan- which, by the way, you should ALL try. It has a raw egg in it and EVERYTHING...very fancy - but I was truly stunned at this revelation. He may as well have told me that yes, he, Darth Vader, was indeed my father after all.

For, to me, to go from Journalist to Politician Spin Doctor would be crossing over to the Dark Side. It's not that journalists and politicians are necessarily opposed to one another (although that is debatable, feel free to challenge this in the comments below) but I would've thought at least part of the appeal of the former profession was the ability to "keep the bastards honest" (ironically) in blunt terms, or rather to be the Fourth Estate.

And more than that, to study a particular discipline for years, and presumably, to follow the careers of journalists you aspire to become more like for many more years, seems like too big a commitment to throw away after one year in the school of not-so-hard knocks.

He assured me that DFAT was his last resort but reasoned that there was only so much one could take in this quasi-journalistic environment. One example he gave was this: one of his stories had, though later nominated for an award, been removed from its website a day after he had posted it because it conflicted with a number of key advertising sponsors. Despite the fact that anything that takes up Internet space for a day can potentially reach millions more than news printed in a trade magazine ever could, It begs the zen-like question:

If a groundbreaking news story has no audience, is it still news?

Over to you, dear readers.

Tune in for the actual pep talk next post.

--

*Update*

This question turns the overused (and kind of absurd) argument - 'kids these days' have it easy when it comes to the media industry because we can 'publish ourselves' on the Internet in one fell click - on its head. Zillions of hits do not maketh Perez Hilton a 'celebrity journalist'. But the blogger vs. citizen journalist debate would not even exist without the huge readership that website attracts on a daily basis. Does a journalist's value therefore turn on the size of its audience?

[Photo: http://3.bp.blogspot.com/]

Sydney Fashion Weekend Part 2: The catwalk

2009-05-18T16:42:00.001-07:00

It's been a long time since blogs, I know. But even though I did attend the:

...it seems the $45 entry fee does not automatically make me a style blogger. Note to self: taking photos of moving models on a catwalk is harder than it seems.

To wit:

Oh well. Better luck next time. When I have a closer look at the professional photos of the day, I will write something more fashionably insightful. For the record (though I'm no expert) my picks for the day were Life with Bird, Rachel Gilbert and Carl Kapp.

Sydney Fashion Weekend Part 1: The splurge

2009-05-18T07:30:00.000-07:00

Shopping on impulse feels much like being in a dying relationship on crack.

It's fate, you think to yourself. At first glance, it peeks out at you from hundreds of coathangers uncomfortably wedged together flaunting their sub-standard wares, a shining beacon of hope amid the clutter of junk. You snatch it up before anyone else notices it, knowing instantly that you must claim it as your very own.

If you try it on, it's only for a second. The mirror tells you everything you want to hear: This is love. Nothing has ever fitted you better, you are positively glowing. Buy. It. Now.

Who are you to object to the forces of nature? Gladly you oblige with scarcely a doubt grazing your subconscious as you watch the attendant swipe away what is probably too many of your hard earned dollars on the crumpled garment before you. You sigh with satisfaction and clutch the bag to your chest with glee. The spoils of capitalism have never been sweeter. It's the female equivalent to eating a bloody steak or swigging a cold beer after a long day of construction, or something equally 'masculine' and inexplicably good.

Then - disaster strikes. The voice of reason, of loved ones, hits you like a bottle to the head: "Summer dresses for near full price, purchased at the start of Winter? Not very practical, Jane."

"But..but..I fell in love! This is what you DO when you're in love...you go all out! Throw caution to the wind! Go with the flow!" Even as the words come our of your mouth, you know you're only half trying to convince yourself of the inflated value of your ill-advised investment.

Within hours, in the privacy and far less forgiving lighting of your room, you re-assess. What was I thinking? This was all wrong from the start. I was high on Sydney Fashion Weekend bliss, overwhelmed by too-small sizes and too-expensive designer brands, lost and somewhat frightened by the masses of crazed, pretentious twenty-something girls attacking shelves of shoes like animals their prey, and in that vulnerable moment, there stood MinkPink, an affordable alternative, so thoughtful and kind, offering me a helping hand. Determined to walk away with something, I had made a rash splurge on not one, but two dresses that, while lovely, have caused me to give up too much, and may not be quite right for me.

But as my friend Maggie loves to remind me, I'm not the kind of girl that likes to 'rip off the bandaid'. Instead, I tend to let wounds from bad relationships linger on till they get infected and require invasive surgery.

You be the judge. Should I call it quits and end it once and for all? Or do you think that together we can make it work somehow? (Please be kind!)

P.S. More on Sydney Fashion Weekend next post.

Moment in Sydney...at the station

2009-05-18T06:25:00.000-07:00

I usually avoid trains in Sydney like Swine flu. Once you become accustomed to driving everywhere, it's hard to go back to those pre-teen days. Especially because everything isn't so conveniently about 5 minutes walk from a tube station like in London, here. But on this particular day, I wanted to avoid the peak hour traffic more and so walked to Circular Quay station, just across the road from where I work.

I saw someone on the platform I wanted desperately to avoid (Oh don't look at me like that, you know you've all done it too at some point!) so I quickly walked the other way and pretended to be looking away, towards the street outside. When I thought the coast was clear, I turned around to face the opposite platform:

And there stood Sydney's magnificent coathanger, better known as the Harbour Bridge, squeezed in between the mundane slices of the 9 to 5, smiling at me like an old friend who lives next door but whom I never get to see. Ain't she a beaut?

(Excuse the crappy photography, apparently 'zoom x 16' didn't turn out as clearly as I thought it would.)

Sticking it to the Channel 7 'man'

2009-05-12T05:21:00.000-07:00

Little known fact: when I was about eight years old, and resembled Violet Beauregard after she ate the stick of gum that tasted like a three course meal at Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory...

...my Dad took me to the Royal Easter Show, which is the highlight of the year for all Aussie kids under the age of 10, right after Christmas and birthdays.

But I wasn't like most well adjusted kids my age. The infamous warehouse lined with themed stalls carrying souvenirs from every Disney film ever made, and Easter showbags filled with everything from two-metre jelly pythons to whoopee cushions did not make my heart race nearly as much as the Channel 7 news set, which had been especially set up to satisfy the fame whoring urges of pretentious brats like myself.

For a small fee, Channel 7 would film you pretending to be a 'real' journalist, while reading the news bulletin script they provided via teleprompter, and sell you the video tape as a memento of your day at the Easter Show. Me? On TV? That was all I needed to know. Gripping Dad's hand in my pudgy little paw, I bent over at the hip in my effort to drag him over to the long queue that had begun to form.

Now, before I go on, understand this about my Dad: he has a really twisted sense of humour, even by universal 'Dad-joke' standards. As we drew closer to the head of the line, he whispered: "Now make sure you try your best up there. You know Channel 7's hiring newsreaders right? If you're really good, maybe they'll pick you!"

Uh oh. Sweat beads dotted my upper brow, and not just from the bright lights behind the camera. It felt like the words before me were moving faster than my eyes, causing me to stumble over almost every single one. When the nightmare was over, I ran over to Dad, tears streaming, red faced with embarrassment, and kicking myself all the way home for ruining my 'one shot at stardom'. Dad laughed: "I was joking! What, you thought I was serious?"

I still have that video somewhere, hidden away among my other darkest hours of shame. I haven't been able to bring myself to watch it since. If asked about it, Dad will always say: "What? I don't remember that! When did I do that?" I think that was the day my beef with Channel 7 began.

In Year 10, I applied for work experience at Channel 7, willing to be the bigger person and put aside our ancient rift. Unbeknown to me, they had received a similar application from another girl in my grade, and, operating under a one-intern-per-school policy, they thanked me very much for my interest but regretfully rejected me. I vowed to attach that letter to my future reciprocal rejection of that commercial network, when Channel 7 would no doubt come to headhunt me for my journalistic prowess.

My, how things have changed since I was eight. I've since moved away from all television aspirations to pursue a print/radio career, and my opinion of Channel 7's journalistic value has also been, erm, revised over the years.

But the Australian media industry is far too small for me to avoid ever crossing paths with my arch nemesis again. A couple of weeks ago, Channel 7's current affairs program 'Today Tonight' came to the publishing firm where I currently work, to interview my editor about our consumer magazine for sea and tree changers, 'Live the Dream'. No, I didn't appear in the tiny 30 second grab he features in, but my back and two cold shoulders, certainly do. Jane: 1, Channel 7: nil. The grudge lives on.

Check out my victorious moment (Literally, a moment: If you blink you might miss me.) here- after you click on the link 'sea change'.

Aussie journalists held hostage by Swan

2009-05-12T03:24:00.000-07:00

I'm just starting to try to wrap my head around tonight's much anticipated Federal Budget 2009-2010 announcement.

So far I've worked out:

1. I still have about half a year to cash in on the $AUD14,000 first home owners' grant if by then I change my mind and decide that, actually, 22 is the best age to lock myself down to a mortgage.

2. My biggest mistake of 2008 was not working enough to be able to pay taxes that year, therefore robbing myself the benefit of the little $900 present Mr Rudd recently gave everyone else to 'help the economy', i.e. 'go shopping' guilt-free. It now appears the Government's spending spree (including two one-off payments) is over, as Australia's third stimulus package will be spent largely on infrastructure.

But before I go bury myself in the pile of media speculation the size of Scrooge McDuck's swimming pool of gold coins that has no doubt already begun to accumulate online about what Mr Swan's speech means for the Australian and global economy, I thought I'd share with you a story about the historic tradition of 'locking up' journalists in Canberra in the lead-up to the announcement of the budget, which appeared in The Australian newspaper yesterday morning.

Feel free to mull over how ridiculous it is for as long as you like.

After all, I may not emerge for a few days.

Moment in Sydney...at Harry's

2009-05-11T06:44:00.000-07:00

During my trip to Barcelona in 2008, I found that the only way to describe a city that never ceases to amaze you is to recall the moments you spend in it. So I've decided there's no reason I can't do the same for my hometown, Sydney. After all, sometimes it's the simplest moments that make all the difference if you just pay attention to them.

(Source: http://www.tripandom.com)

Sitting on the ground next to Harry's with my girlfriends. Dressed to kill but lounging with legs sprawled in front of us to rest our feet, throbbing from too many hours in heels far too high for us. Eating a pie and peas at 1am, shaking with laughter, heads thrown back. Laughing out loud with our mouths full of mash and mystery meat. Totally oblivious yet indifferent to the bewildered passersby.

The First Down Payment

2009-05-10T23:37:00.000-07:00

The penny has finally dropped for the leaders of the world's largest economies: badly thought out and sloppily negotiated executive pay contracts have actually proved to be a failure of risk management, as Jane Lee reports.

Check out the rest of my first article in the latest issue of INSTO magazine (and first financial news article) here:

The Graduate

2009-05-09T06:08:00.000-07:00

Hello World Wide Web:

Apologies, I've been a bit slack with regular updates of late, but it's been a long and turbulent ride of a week for me. For one thing...

...I graduated on Monday. Even though all of us technically received our final marks around January earlier this year, now, having sat through the entire ceremony, I can only conclude that my friends and I must have watched far too many American teen movies featuring high school or college graduation scenes growing up in order to produce the giddy excitement that brought goosebumps to many a graduand's arm that Monday morning.

We patiently lined up single file to be fitted with black gowns and square tassled caps. I had a 15 minute panic attack about the fact that the rim of my hat was cutting off the circulation to my brain while simultaneously branding my forehead with the letter 'V'. Luckily, they allowed me to line up again to change sizes at the last minute - crisis averted.

In the seemingly endless waiting period that followed, I made the rounds and briefly caught up with a few people I hadn't seen since my last semester at uni. Within minutes I had had two very different conversations with two equally brilliant, articulate, over-achieving friends, both destined to do very well if not better than me.

Conversation 1:
JSYL: So what are you up to these days?
Her: Oh I'm working in Canberra (Capital city of Australia, land of the Australian Parliament and financially secure public servants). They've kind of thrown me in the deep end but I'm enjoying it.

Conversation 2:
Him: So what are you up to these days?
JSYL: Oh, you know how it is, the usual, I'm just working...
Him: Oh. [Laughs bitterly] I'm not.

People started to flock towards the doors of the Great Hall, impatient for their 2 seconds of glory, resplendent in their shiny cloaks of tertiary success. We sat in our allotted seats, fidgeting, adjusting, and fidgeting a little more. A girl on my right complained that we should really be wearing two coloured collars: one for each degree. She flicked through the program and gasped that she would be introduced without any mention of her major, or one of her honours. The mere prospect grated her like nothing else. It may well have been the biggest tragedy of her short life to date. I watched a sort of firm resolve take shape on her face as her complaints slowly subsided, and I swore I could see a ten year plan to legislate against sloppy graduation procedures forming in her head.

All around me, graduates were fervently discussing the issue of whether we were to shake hands with the Chancellor with our right hand before taking our testamurs from her with our left, or vice versa, whether we should bow as we touched our caps, or just nod once our names were announced, how long to pause for before strutting down the length of the stage, and (my personal favourite): "Do you think we have to flick our tassles from the right side to the left after we're called up?"

I turned to my friend incredulously and asked, "Where did you get that from?"
She shrugged and smiled sheepishly. "That's what they do in the movies."

It was at this point that I began to ask myself if this whole graduation thing was not a total farce. I'm sure the medieval get-up and the solemn proceedings were all designed to symbolise the gravity of the occasion and thus, the true value of the qualifications we were about to receive.

But after stifling a guffaw at the sight of an Asian man dressed as Henry VIII in the academic procession, and walking slowly across the stage, careful not to move my head an inch for fear my newly oversized hat would fall off my head without warning, and staring down at the clear plastic folder holding five years of my life in its flimsy shell, I was pretty well convinced, and somewhat disappointed at the anti-climax the day had proven itself to be.

My parents loved it, of course. I don't think they, or my kind godparents who flew from interstate to be there, stopped smiling all day. My mum took blurry pictures of me posing awkwardly with friends, and kept staring at me lovingly and hugging me at random moments in the days that followed. Later, she confessed: "It was an emotional day for me you know. My little girl's all grown up." For them, it marked the end of an era. In the words of my Dad: "Now we can be retrenched in peace."

For me, it was more of a wake up call. We were told all throughout high school that if we finished our final exams with good marks, we could get into good universities, and be ensured good jobs at the end of our hard work. This was meant to be the moment where we were to be congratulated for following the life plan, the stage our short stroll from university to the promised land of success. Yet I watched some graduate ahead of me, with better marks, and better jobs, with a little envy, wondering whether I might've tried harder, gone further by now. And I saw others with equally good marks pose for photos with no job at all, and considered myself lucky.

For five years, we'd all crammed for exams in the same library, raced to the Law faculty to hand in our assignments at the last minute, and thanked God we'd passed one awful subject or another so that we wouldn't have to repeat it in the next semester. Hundreds graduated that day. And I can honestly say I only knew and cared for a handful of them. Isn't that sad?

My life today has been made into a movie in which I'm played by Alexis Bledel of Gilmore Girls fame, right down to the fact that I'm utterly confused and still living with my parents post graduation, only minus the distraction of not one, but TWO love interests (greedy much, Rory?): one a hot best friend who's secretly in love with me, the other a wise and mysterious next door neighbour.

The truth is I am not where I thought I would be at this stage at all; university was certainly not the free pass I had hoped it would be. The hard work is never really 'over', academic qualifications are not equivalent to one's worth in the workforce, or in life itself, and graduation day, glorious or not, is no more, or less, an indication that things will get better, or worse. That my friends, is up to us graduates alone. And the global economy.

If it will make you smile...

2009-04-29T05:47:00.000-07:00

Props to Russ for showing me this.

The most interesting conversations I've ever had have been with strangers...

2009-04-28T23:12:00.000-07:00

...hell, it's probably why I've always been so attracted to the profession of journalism.

Over the last couple of weeks I've been working on an article about Myanmar's (Burma's) position under the recently signed ASEAN Australia New Zealand Free Trade Agreement (AANZFTA), given its astonishing human rights record, most recently noted by journalists that covered the Saffron uprising of late 2007 and in the early days following Cyclone Nargis.

I don't think I quite knew what I was getting myself into when I started researching Burma. I had a hard time securing interviewees straight off the bat. But I succeeded in the end, and I even think my skin's gotten thicker from the experience, which is always a good thing for a wannabe journalist.

I may have even improved my interviewer 'style' or 'technique', if you consider catching a politician (Greens Senator Scott Ludlum, Burma Campaign Australia) off guard for a moment a measurement of journalistic success:

JSYL: To be very cynical though, would you say that Australia possibly doesn’t have enough to gain from taking such a strong stance in terms of resources or in terms of trade, or alternatively that it benefits somewhat from not taking action [against the Burmese military regime]?

Senator Ludlum: [muttered under breath] I wish this was a conversation rather than an interview.

I didn't realise he'd said this 'til I transcribed the interview. Had I known, I probably would have further pressed him to speak more openly.

It got me thinking: what is the difference between an 'interview' and a 'conversation' with a journalist? Surely journalists are encouraged to challenge and discuss various views with their sources to generate a meaningful debate, as long as they avoid promoting their own? Another interview I did with Sean Turnell, the editor of Burma Economic Watch (which was well worth the wait) ultimately turned into what Ludlum might term a conversation:

Turnell: I think also though, that we should probably be a bit more critical of China because clearly China is the country playing the biggest role and it’s a wholly negative role.

JSYL: But you’ve heard all these media reports about how the Australian government is so eager to retain its relationship with, and not to offend China at all, even in the slightest at the moment.

Turnell: Indeed. No, I agree and I think this is an area, Jane, where Australia should be saying: "Look we respectfully disagree with you". In fact, in some ways it might even be an opportunity for the Australian government because obviously lately it’s come under a bit of criticism for being a bit too close to China and so on, and this might be an interesting, low-cost way in which they can express their empathy!

JSYL: Right, because I don’t believe that getting a tougher stance on Burma is really going to compromise our relationship with China that much.

Turnell: Totally agree, totally agree.

JSYL: I mean look at Tibet. We’ve met with the Dalai Lama so many times and nothing’s happened.

Turnell: Absolutely right.

JSYL: I don’t know. I think I’ve spoken to too many activists.

Turnell: Well I’m really quite fascinated with your attitude as well because that’s quite interesting to me, and educative for me. And I think you’re right because it sort of goes to the point that I mentioned earlier that…for once we can say there actually is right and wrong. It’s one of those things where so much of the world is grey, but not, not this regime...

And at the end of the interview, he gave me the nicest compliment I've possibly ever received:

Turnell: Okay, well thank you! Your questions were incredibly perceptive because I spend a lot of time talking to the press and most people have nowhere near the understanding that you have and have asked as penetrating questions and as broad as well. Most people just highlight one particular sanction or whatever, so no, it was a pleasure.

So where does the line between interview and conversation lie? And did I cross it, in this instance?

The Train Driver Story*

2009-04-25T21:14:00.000-07:00

This story is about a train driver who drove up and down the same railway track all day, every day, for many years. As you can imagine, it was a pretty monotonous and lonely job. He had no one to talk to, and nothing much to look at except the surrounding countryside outside the windows.

One day he looked out and noticed a sparklingly new white cottage. Out the front of the cottage there stood a sprawling rose garden. The roses were big and red and perfectly shaped - they were, in fact, the most beautiful roses the train driver had ever seen. A little girl noticed him passing and smiled sweetly and waved, and the train driver waved back. Once, her mother was outside playing with her, and they both waved to him as he passed.

The train driver began to look forward to the moment in his day when he would pass the white cottage. Most days, the girl and her mother would be there to wave at him, and he soon felt a kind of close connection to the pair. Over the years, their meetings grew less frequent, but on the days when they were there, the train driver watched as the little girl grew older, and became a young woman, yet smiled at him just as warmly as when he had first seen her.

Finally, the day came when the train driver retired, and he moved to a town a little way off from the cottage. He often missed his daily ritual of passing the cottage and the girl and her mother, and at last decided to pay them both a visit. But when he arrived, he was surprised when he came to the front door.

Up close, the cottage was not nearly as white and clean as he had remembered.

The roses in the garden were not as large or as beautiful as the ones he had passed each day.

And when the mother and daughter met him, they were a bit puzzled as to who he was. When the train driver had explained himself, they invited him inside for a cup of tea, but were not nearly as warm and open to him as he had hoped, and he soon left as quickly and politely as he could.

I felt sorry for the train driver when I first heard this story, because he had developed this friendship with the mother and her daughter in his mind over the years, only to be bitterly disappointed after all that time. But then I realised that it was his own fault. He had built up this illusion in his mind of perfection, that was not real. It was just an illusion.

I think the same can be said for many things - the tragedy is entirely our own making.

*As told to JSYL by someone pretty wise.

JSYL gets all kinds of philosophical

2009-04-19T22:40:00.000-07:00

...in her weekly post on Three Things. Ch-ch-ch-ch-check it out here.

London calling

2009-04-16T17:11:00.000-07:00

"Personally, I find living in London to be incredibly inspiring. It's not always easy, but I enjoy the challenge of living there, and I enjoy the passion everyone demonstrates for the arts."

- Juanita Stein from the Howling Bells tells Frankie magazine.

'2am and I'm still awake writing a song...'*

2009-04-16T09:23:00.000-07:00

You may or may not be wondering what I'm doing blogging at 2.25am Sydney time. (If you're not, you have no empathy, soul, or business perusing my blog. Sorry. I'm tired. That sounded funnier in my head.)

It all started with an article - The Burmese economy, warts and all, and how the recent ASEAN Australia New Zealand Free Trade Agreement (AANZFTA) will work in that context.

After a quick Internet browse I stumbled on three perfect contacts:

1. Australian economist who's published countless works and been quoted for his views on Myanmar in, (who'd have thunk it?) The Economist

2. A Burmese person who shall remain nameless

3. Humanitarian aid workers who've worked in Myanmar for years

But it was too good to be true. One by one my potential interviewees started to drop out for various reasons. Then, miraculously, said economist agreed to a phone interview despite currently being in Washington.

Well, my big ego made me brag about it on Facebook and Twitter, and being a stickler for accuracy, it also felt compelled to report the unfortunate series of events that followed:

10.19PM JSYL taking a nap before a 1am interview with Australian economist currently in Washington, on the plight of Burmese migrant workers in Thailand..sweeeeet

10.27PM JSYL oh. holy. crap. what is wrong with my recorder.

10.29PM JSYL All's well. thank God I had spare cassettes. Night all!

...after fitfully hovering between sleep and consciousness for a few hours...

1.14AM JSYL voice mail?!?! nooooooOoooooooOoooooo

Journalism fail indeed.

*Not really. Anna Nalick is though, and it's a good one.

Russell Crowe: Media friend, foe, or ho?

2009-04-16T08:58:00.000-07:00

Did anyone else find it kind of amusing that Russell Crowe, who only three years ago was responsible for this media mess, which led to the suicidal death of Jack Marx's credibility and career, played a 'journalist' in the new film 'State of Play'?

Reuters did, though for other, more technical reasons.

(Source: http://2.bp.blogspot.com)

Journalist starts a conversation

2009-04-16T08:30:00.000-07:00

Antonio Sofi, blogger and new media commenter, had some interesting things to say earlier this month when speaking at the International Journalism Festival in Perugia.

"You may not be familiar with both medicine and the wars from the last century in Africa. But you might have readers among doctors, historians, lawyers and sociologists.

Set a subject in an interesting and provocative way and you can get many feedbacks to find the truth.

Write incomplete articles and let the audience fill them in! The conversation is basically more interesting than the topic!"

Long live the blogosphere!

Journalism school a waste of money?

2009-04-12T04:28:00.000-07:00

In about a month I will finally graduate from 5 years at university.

Yet tonight, for the first time, I started questioning what it might really be worth.

My Journalism degree alone cost my parents a whopping $AUD 7518.60 (not including student union fees before Voluntary Student Unionism came in force, and textbooks, which I paid for myself, or the huge cost of letting me go on exchange in 2008. I shudder to think what the other degree cost them). At the time of writing, that's the equivalent of £3 688.97, USD 5,402.86 and €4,106.45.

...Pause for gaping mouths to close...

It's an age-old debate: can 'Journalism' ever be truly 'taught'?

Every Journalism student has come across at least one successful journalist from the old school o' hard knocks, coffee mug in hand and notepad at the ready. He (it's usually a 'he') poo-poohs the notion of 'Journalism school' (always spoken with a wry smile and a sarcastic tone), explaining that he got to where he was by clinging to his street smarts, raw talent and sheer luck.

And for every one of those there is another suited up, slicked back journo with 20 years of contacts who's rapid-fire thought pattern betrays his smooth, laid back demeanour that comes only from the reassurance that the combination of all that education and experience and a full-time job can bring.

Given the current climate (That must be the world's most over-used phrase of the century) I'm not the only one thinking about this. The debate is finding new relevance now as media jobs decline, and the future of Journalism becomes more uncertain. If the truly brilliant are struggling, where does that leave the rest of us? Indeed, despite burgeoning enrolment rates at Journalism schools the world over, only in 2016 will reporter positions increase. Great. Only 7 years to go.

I cannot deny the personal value of the university experience. I met some of my best friends and learned some of my hardest emotional lessons to date while there. Most (sadly not all) of us have by now, through university, acquired a bulk of the social and life skills needed to get us through to adulthood and the Real World.

And let's face it, these days going to university is so commonplace it's almost rare to find someone without at least one degree upon entering the workforce.

But after all that, though better off personally and to some extent professionally for the experience, I have to wonder if maybe, I might've fallen into Journalism even without it, as so many of the best seem to have done, and left my parents $7518.60 richer, to make up in some small way for the recent death of half of their superannuation fund.

WWJD?

2009-04-11T16:26:00.000-07:00

I'm about to start getting ready to go to Mass on Easter Sunday. But I'm also thinking about not going in protest of this. And the church wonders why congregation numbers are dwindling. The Vatican needs to start revising the party line.

The best of times for journalists?

2009-04-08T05:34:00.000-07:00

Many grads can relate to having done all the 'right things' to get our foot in the door to Oz otherwise known as the media industry. With the early days of (at times) dull work experience, (more promising) internships, free bylines, and getting our first important media contacts through brilliant initiative and sheer luck long behind us, we were probably of those well placed to survive the competitive fight for limited entry level positions in media.

But since the global economy decided to explode, journalism's become an even harder gig to pull. We too have been left clinging desperately to the frame of that same door, kicking and screaming so it doesn't shut on us completely.

BBC journo Andrew Neil, in 2006, raised a similar argument to News Limited chairman John Hartigan's in 2007: that the digital age presents journalists with greater challenges but also massive opportunities that must be embraced in order to move forward. Though written from the comfort of a time when being made redundant was a condition only suffered by people close to retirement, rather than being a rite of passage for 20-somethings that might have otherwise been on their way to lifelong careers, I think some of his words still ring true today.

While I use the words 'journalist' and 'journalism' really loosely throughout this blog (the endless interpretations of what it means to be truly a part of that profession are so far-reaching they've made up entire semesters worth of discussion that are for another blog, another day), I come from a school of Journalism that has always drummed into its students the notion that 'journalism' and 'PR' always clash.

Yet as I learn more than ever before about the media in the workforce itself, it seems as if we all have to 'sell' ourselves, rather than 'prove' ourselves to be worth a position, now, perhaps more than ever before. Neil confirmed my fear:

"The editors of the future who want to entice the best and the brightest will have to cater for journalists who are brands in their own right and who develop their brands across various platforms, not always for you exclusively.

"The journalists of tomorrow will write for newspapers, contribute to magazines and podcasts, work for TV production companies and write their own blogs, because you wouldn't give them a column then they will sell the blog back to you at an inflated price"

Then again, maybe, as Neil suggests, this change will be to our benefit as it gives us greater independence from newspaper barons or media moguls, and therefore, better quality journalism:

"The days when journalists were wholly owned subsidiaries of a single editor are coming to an end, and those who try to run journalists that way will end up employing dummies and the best and the brightest will have gone elsewhere."

I guess technology's just made it that much harder, and easier at the same time to get in the door. Here's to hoping we can do it without (completely) losing our integrity in the process.

Sharing IS Caring

2009-04-06T05:44:00.001-07:00

(Photo: http://2.bp.blogspot.com/)

I don't care if it's just a damn good marketing ploy. You need to see this.

First Magazine - Australian Innovation

2009-04-02T16:24:00.000-07:00

For the past month I've been working on Australian Innovation, the official publication of the Australian Innovation Festival. The first copies arrived yesterday, and I have to say I'm pretty happy with the way it turned out.

I sub-edited a number of the articles and advertorials that appeared in the book, and even contributed a few stories of my own, namely:

Curiosity Killed the Copycat - p.63

Picking Winners - p.107

Sharks in Shock - p.116

Secret Inventors' Business - p.117

More on this a little later.

You can check out an online version of the magazine here.

--
Update:

I always thought working in a magazine would mean living the glamorous life - wearing expensive clothes, swishing away super shiny locks and carrying away bags of freebies from expensively catered events...though much of this was probably drilled into me by one too many hours spent re-watching 'The Devil Wears Prada'. (Don't judge me, you've all done it too, I know, and coveted those Chanel boots at one stage or another. Bite me.)

But after getting Jane Bruton her breakfast every day (a fruit cup and a bottle of water from that particular store in Covent Garden) and watching the Features Editor of an Australian magazine that shall remain nameless paint her fingernails with dark purple nailpolish at her desk, the once sparkling snapshot of magazine life in my head became a little dull and tattered around the edges.

The B2B publishing house where I work presented an equally huge culture shock to my system. I can count the number of women in the office on one hand on most days (part-time interns excluded, for now). And yes, the gender-shift really does change the culture of a newsroom. Compared to the wire service routine to which I was by now accustomed, the pace seemed to slow right down. Until, that is, production week before deadline arrived out of nowhere, and everyone simultaneously shifted gears to accommodate the adrenaline rush.

Call me a self-absorbed brat (though maybe not to my face too early in the morning) but I will never tire of seeing my words and name in print. The day the first copies of the book came in, I could hardly contain myself, and in the words of my colleague, 'jumped around'.

Sure, we may have all made daily sarcastic jokes about how, being a B2B book, rather than a consumer publication, with a large number of politically spun commissioned articles, our readership would not be mind-blowing and our best efforts would not be acknowledged by many. I can tell you with all honesty I've had my own doubts about the 'value' of my contribution to that elusive and self-effacing profession of 'journalism' in the production of this magazine.

Nevertheless, in came the prints, in their awkwardly fragile brown cardboard boxes. And there we each sat on our respective wheely-chairs, music blaring on the radio in the background - for once, the only audible sound in the room. Flicking through each page painstakingly for errors, squinting at the cover, holding up the spine to the light to examine the glue that connected pages we had gone over for days on end. Jokes aside, we take a lot of pride in what we do. And the same can be said for the best journalists in the business.

That's good enough for me.

Dear Jane at 5 years old,

2009-03-30T05:56:00.000-07:00

Hi Jane.

Happy birthday.

How was your party? McDonald's was an excellent choice.

I know you're disappointed Christopher Hayward didn't make it, but hey, the rest of your class did, and that's something.
It's a lot actually. I don't think you'll be fortunate enough to get 30 presents in one day ever again. Sorry.

You don't know me, but I just thought I'd give you some sort of a heads-up on how things might be for you over the next 20 or so years, so you're not completely clueless this time around.

There are going to be times, just like today, when you're surrounded by everyone you love, which at this point, is pretty much everyone you know - those will be the best times.

There are also going to be plenty of lunchtimes when you won't have as many people to play with. But you'll still have fun. Imaginary friends are sometimes more fun than real people anyway - somehow they always like the same games as you, and they always go away right when you're tired of them.

There will be plenty of boys after Christopher Hayward (though what you were doing with a guy with a dorky name like that I'll never know). Most of them will be just as lousy as he is, and pay little or no attention to you. When that happens, go to mum. She'll always know what to say, even when you don't want to hear it. Especially then.

There are going to be times when you will be so sure of yourself, and you'll think the world is being neatly placed on a path created just for you.

But there are also going to be times when you will stare at yourself in the mirror at 1am, tear-streaked cheeks, dishevelled hair and all, exhausted from hoping and expecting things will work out in your favour, and bearing the disappointment that that almost always brings with it, and you won't even recognise yourself anymore.

You will wonder if you are doing the right thing, and if you have made the right choices, and what you would do if you had it all to do over again, and what it's all for, anyway. And yes, you will probably regret many things.

Those will be the worst times.

But even though getting the things you want most won't always be easy, they will always be worth it. Even if you can only have them for a little while.

Don't be discouraged.

Because there will also be times when you won't have to try so very hard to prove yourself, to please, or to make people care for you. Even though sometimes it will feel like that's the only way to get them, you should never have to try too hard for any of those things.

I'd better go, it's getting late. I'll share more of my wisdom with you when you're a little older. For now, take care.

Sincerely,

Jane at 22 years old.

P.S. In about three years' time, you're going to learn about the human body. Mr Humphreys will tell you to go home and find a name for a new body part you'd never heard of before, to bring back to class the next day. When your brother tells you to say 'colon' but won't tell you what it is, look it up. Trust me.

Sydney vs. London

2009-03-11T05:16:00.000-07:00

To stave off the slow death of this blog, I present you with a list that has been a'brewing for the last 7 months and is now ripe for publication: the post-exchange reflection. It's almost midnight so I'll spare you any emotional shit and get right to it. Enjoy!

Reasons why Sydney Dominates:

There are a bunch of things I really took for granted before the big flight over to London, and which I take more notice of today including:

1. Good (and by good I don't mean the restaurants meet national health and safety standards, just that they taste amazing and authentic) Asian food accessible at every corner: Vietnamese, Japanese, Korean and Malaysian to be exact.

2. Greater diversity and integration of cultures- I actually think Sydney's gotten even more diverse since I left it.

3. Friendly enforcement against 'Tall Poppy Syndrome' is well-established, usually by saying 'Fuck ooofffff' to douchebag beahaviour with a smile.

4. Being able to walk down a street, wearing whatever you want, a short skirt, whatever, and know that you won't get accosted by a junkie (in many, but not all parts)- priceless

5. Personal space is not an illusion in Sydney, it's still a reality.

6. Black stuff doesn't come out of my nose here.

7. Being able to afford to go to a swanky-esque bar occasionally and buy a drink without having to sacrifice, say, food for the next week.

Reasons why London Dominates:

There are also many things I've come to miss about London, no matter how much people whinge about it I will always defend it as a city because...

1. Anonymity still remains a valuable commodity for non-celebrities - being able to wear pyjamas down a street in Central London and knowing no one will even glance twice. There's always someone weirder than you anyway.

2. 'Fuck off' enforcement still rife, but the English equivalent is more of a 1 hour criticism session about some celebrity or sell-out musician/football player

3. SNOW. That is all.

4. Being able to walk down a street and point out all the 1000 year old monuments on either side as you walk past.

5. Being the centre of Europe, newsrooms in London have the potential to become much more interesting

6. Live music- someone that's huge in the underground/alternative music scene internationally can always be found playing somewhere on any given night of the week in London. While Londonians talk about these gigs nonchalantly as such non-events, Australian fans scramble for leaked mp3s and youtube videos for years before they'll even bother coming on tour

7. Random huge crowd events like silent disco in Liverpool Street only made possible by London's huge population

[Photo of Opera House sourced from: bernardoh.files.wordpress.com]

Foot-in-mouth disease runs in the Lee family.

2008-12-10T00:52:00.000-08:00

Me: X spends a lot on clothes.
Mum: But her clothes aren't very pretty.
Dad: Because X isn't very pretty.
Me: Am I pretty, Dad?
Dad: Of course!

I smile. A nice quiet moment passes.

Dad: But not VERY pretty.
Me: Gee, thanks! You just..
Dad (interjecting): You know, JUST pretty...
Me: ...made me feel great, thank you!
Dad: (continuing) I mean, you know, it's not like you're Miss World or anything.

Sigh.

Buy one big mouth and get a few feet free.

2008-11-16T02:54:00.000-08:00

It was the day of the annual Glebe Street Fair and boiling hot. We were walking up a really looong street lined with market stalls manned by young fashion designers, artists, antique collectors, jewellery makers and kebab stalls, amid stacks of people aimlessly milling about. Throw in some random tap dancers dressed in school uniform and girls doing the hula in grass skirts every 20 metres for good measure. Sort of a cross between Portobello markets and the Notting Hill Festival on a much smaller scale.

Anyhoo. After much ooh-ing and aah-ing over some interesting necklaces and searching for any non-kebab foods (nothing against kebabs, I just wasn't really in the mood), I spotted out the corner of my eye the hottest mini black something- I wasn't sure what it was yet, but I still knew it was worth checking out. I rushed over to take a closer look. Haphazardly splashed with bright colour, the dress, possibly made out of a pair of jeans, was indeed amazing. But then I looked at what hung up next to it, and realised that everything in that stall was from the family of those...fads? Concepts? Post-modern trends?...call it what you will, but whatever it is, I haven't completely made up my mind yet whether I love or hate it.

Let me explain. There were t-shirts displaying prints labelled with graffiti-style font, cutesy faux rebellious catch phrases like: "Graf yo mamma" and "cruising for a bruising", or black and white photo prints newly adorned with a retro patchwork of colours, and illustrations of animals brooding...do you see what I'm getting at here? Kind of? The thing is, those kinds of clothes are eye-catching, sure. And at first glance you think, 'How cool is that? I HAVE to have one. How ironic, how witty, how utterly taking-the-piss-out-of-the-era-but-still-blissfully-a-90s-child...that's me to a tee!' Then you look at the astronomical price tag and are forced to walk away, somewhat puzzled about why you have left empty-handed.

That day was no exception. I snagged the price tag and gaped at the- get ready for this- $250 damage that hot little dress would cost me. Two hundred and fifty dollars! Granted, the day in question was some weeks ago and my memory may be a little hazy on exactly how much over 200 it was but COME ON. That's more than I earned in the part-time job I used to have in a whole week. Think of the heinous profit the guy would make after spending what I imagine to be maximum half of the cost, to wit: the same amount of denim used in an average sized pair of jeans, some thread, some paint-like clothing dye, and the level of mannual labour expected of anyone who could cut up a pair of jeans and stitch it back together in a tube dress.

Fashionistas, put down your scissors for about two more minutes. I GET what you want to say: "Fashion is art man, stop being one of those populist morons who go to abstract art exhibitions and say 'I could've painted that', because you couldn't. You're paying for the design, the concept, which is invaluable and more inspired than anything you could ever put a needle to."

See? I get it, I really do. That's the 'love' part of this particular 'trend'. But here's the 'hate': Even if we assume for a second that this kind of retro-90s-hip hop-loving-streetwear, in essence, pop culture, has a place on the 'high fashion' shelf, can this concept, which is not an original one, be considered so revolutionary and creative as to warrant such a high price tag at a market stall, no less? Herein lies the contradiction. In its heyday, this stuff would naturally appeal to young people. The young, ne'er do well, middle class bunch of us that like wearing casual clothes with a little edge in comparison to the norm. Kids like us can't afford to spend hundreds of dollars on a dress, or a t-shirt, on a Sunday afternoon stroll without batting an eyelid. So clearly, they're aimed at people who are a little more well off.

People who are well off are not middle class. Meaning that the people who end up wearing such clothes are in actual fact, upper class, pretentious former preppies who want to be seen as 'down' with 'Jenny from the block'. People who justify slumming it by waving the hundred dollar price tag in the face of all who might question their integrity. People who are not really 'slumming' it at all.

You have to wonder in all of this madness: 'who designs this stuff?'. Is it someone from the former, trying to cash in on the demand as a way of sticking it to the man, or is it someone from the latter, who got bored after years of arts degrees, soul searching on first class airplane seats to exotic South East Asian destinations, was one day lying on an inflatable mattress in the pool with his wayfarers on and decided to 'do' something with his life. He saw a couple of interesting photographs online, mass produced t-shirts blazing coloured reproductions of them, doodled a label and called the series a 'line', all his own. Is it inspired or soul-less? Witty creativity or unecessary exploitation?

Gross exaggeration, I know. Public school complex? Probably. But you gotta admit, the thought does cross your mind.
So in the instant it took for my hand to flick away the (to me) unacceptable price tag, my too-big mouth had almost unconsciously uttered the words: "$250? For that much money, I could make it myself!"

...
I'll pause for the well-deserved cringe that will naturally take place here.
...

I turned away, prepared to get on to the next stall, only to take greater notice of the man who'd been standing in the middle of the road, awkwardly swinging his arms back and forth in what I thought was an impatient way of passing the time he was spending waiting for his girlfriend to please be done shopping. He had a trilby (of course) and some wayfarers (double of course), some shorts and trendy sneakers, and didn't miss a beat, barely looking at me walking past him as he said chirpily: "Great! Maybe you can start a store too then!"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

And again-- fuck.

I dragged my friend away from that stall faster than you can say "What a wanker" and tried to avoid that side of the road when I made my way back down it again later to get to my car. Immediately the previous image in my head was replaced by the hard-working fashion school student, a little pretentious but scraping by on what little he had to put together a stall, take all the photographs, market his designs- his ego and his pride all on the line for a few measly hundred bucks: not even enough to pay the rent and utilities. What an insensitive jerk I was. But I couldn't help but feel somewhat unfairly abashed for what would otherwise (i.e. not in those exact words, or at that exact time) be a perfectly valid statement to make. After all, if fashion is art, you have to be prepared for , nay, expectant of, some criticism.

I kept the brand in my head so I could google it later, and was pleasantly surprised when SOTOSMITH turned out to have some amazing pieces that, say what you will about their origins, are probably well worth their price. This would all probably make a lot more sense if I could waive the copyright infringement fears and just post photos of the damn things. You can see more of it all on the label's myspace.

I don't know if this post served as a justification for my actions or an apology to the underdog designer/out of touch wank I offended that day. But hey. No press is bad press. If anyone asks- that's my excuse for it. Good night, friends.

Simple Lessons I Learned the Hard Way in October:

2008-10-26T23:21:00.000-07:00

1. Beirut is the capital of Lebanon. (Don't ask.)

2. The picture of my boyfriend being violently inhaled by some sort of giant killer whale is actually a picture of my boyfriend, hugging me.

3. Bertrand Russell once said, "There is much pleasure to be gained from useless knowledge". But some people should never be googled.

[Photo Source: XinHua News]

The Quote

2008-10-05T17:40:00.000-07:00

"I believe marriage is meant to be a sacred institution between two unwilling teenagers.

But don't think I don't tolerate gay people. Because I do. I tolerate them, with all my heart. And I know quite a few, too. Not personally, but I know of them. I've seen Ellen. Oh and there was this one girl on my college basketball team. She wasn't officially a gay, but, you know, we were pretty sure."

- Tina Fey's take on Republican Sarah Palin's views on gay marriage, as spoken in the recent U.S. Vice-Presidential debate.

(Photo source: hollywoodgrind.com)

The HHH

2008-09-23T17:58:00.000-07:00

What an obscure post title. The Hs stand for the Hack Half Hour.
I ordinarily try to shy away from any form of advertising on this blog, but this is really too good to miss, and I guess it could count as shameless self-promotion*, which we all know I'm in tremendous favour of.

I always go on about how I think it's tragic that young people are so apathetic about politics and the world around them these days, and that the media alone holds the key to somehow turning this around by making news palatable and relevant to us again.

In all seriousness, I think this show, a TV-version of Triple J's excellent program The Hack, could really make a difference to the problem. 'Current affairs' is no longer a dirty word in the world of Australian journalism!

I could rant about this show forever but I think it speaks for itself:

The first episode aired on ABC2 on Monday night. Get it while it's hot.

---------
Update: watch it online here.

*I've been intern-ing on the show for the past few weeks.

One 'cool' man down

2008-09-10T06:02:00.000-07:00

It seems I stand corrected. I should have known it was too good to be true, but we're all about accuracy on this blog so I'm not afraid to admit it. A one-time-indecent-exposure a Marc Jacobs model does not make. Turns out our beloved Axle Whitehead is in fact a model for Australian label Marcs, and not Marc by Marc Jacobs. Boo. Hiss.

So we're one man down. I'm open to suggestions for the now vacant spot on my 'cool' list, but I warn you, my standards are pretty high :P

Logical Suicide Bombing?

2008-09-02T23:35:00.000-07:00

“…modern suicide terrorism is analogous to instances of international coercion. For states, air power and economic sanctions are often the preferred coercive tools…For terrorist groups, suicide attacks are becoming the coercive instrument of choice.”

Robert A. Pape*, The Strategic Logic of Suicide Terrorism, The American Political Science Review, Vol. 97, No. 3 (Aug., 2003), at p. 344

*(Professor of Political Science at the University of Chicago specializing in international security affairs who's very well respected as an authority in his field, and a critic of the war on Iraq and more generally on America's international strategies following September 11).

Please discuss (educated opinions or sensitive questions only).

The New Cool.

2008-08-30T20:03:00.000-07:00

I showed my friend a t-shirt I'd bought the other day. Nothing spesh, just a pink one with this cool black-and-white picture of a couple of flying birds. I held it up in front of her in all its glory. I wasn't expecting a huge response. It was a t-shirt, after all. But since we've always had a complimentary, if not identical, taste in clothes, I definitely didn't expect the 'Hmm I wonder how long I have to grimace out a smile and nod for before she'll get that monstrosity out of my face' look. But no matter. What floored me was the exchange that followed:

"What? You don't like it?"
"No nothing, it's just...well..since you've come back from London, you've started dressing...kind of...quirky." It took her a while to find that word. It was a low blow.
"And by quirky you mean bad right?"
Her face was all the proof I needed.

It got me thinking about what really IS cool, these days. When I was little, Jeremy Jordan and an Australian girl band aptly named 'Girlfriend', was in. When I was in high school, it was the huge Country Road side bag I could never afford that made me weak at the knees. That, and a group of girls who strutted around like they owned the place. Little did I know in just a few years time many of them would be either a) married to lose their virginity the 'right' way, b) have a drug problem or c) have moved out early to pursue a lifelong career stacking shelves at Coles. [ok, maybe not that last part but that was funny in a weirdly bitter kind of way, wasn't it?]

But now? Where has this insidious path of 'cool' led me? I had a think, and here are the people that make my top 6 (note to self, add 4 more later to make it a nice round 10):

Equal-place 6. Philip Lee and Damien Lee: [my brother, my cousin]- Alright, I realise admitting you think people you're related to are 'cool' is pretty 'uncool'. But I have to be honest. Apart from that weird heavy metal phase my brother went through, everything he touched, from TLC's CrazySexyCool album, to his collection of trilbys has inspired my inner trendy child. My cousin on the other hand, is probably the most well-travelled person I know. I didn't see him or know where he was for about two years, he was that busy. He's done everything from getting bitten in the stomach by a seal off the Galapagos Islands to drinking vodka for breakfast with locals at...I forget where. But ask him. It's a good story. This is also a pretty cool photo.

5. Mary Kate Olsen: [Style icon, Co-designer of The Row, one half of Michelle on Full House] Anyone who can make an oversized plaid shirt, ray-bans and messy hair hot worldwide gets my cool vote any day.

4. Axle Whitehead [Australian Idol alumni] I know what you're thinking: 'Wasn't that guy kicked off Idol like 10 years ago, going on to present Video Hits for another few years? The only interesting thing he's done in the last century was moon a national audience at the Aria Awards in 2006! How can he be cool?' Well my friends, I have news for you. Did you know that Axle Whitehead is the new Australian model for Marc by Marc Jacobs? No. YOU get out. I'm serious. Who would've thunk it? Do yourself a favour. Walk past the QVB (corner of George and King Street end) and have a perv. With a cravat and a brooding stare he actually cleans up pretty nice.

3. Adam Brody/Seth Cohen: [O.C alumni] It's ordinarily a sad day when all you've got going for you is the fact that you were once in a 21st century revival of 90210 that was only truly brilliant for one season, two max. But this guy, with the help of his alter-ego Seth, singlehandedly made it 'okay' to have a crush on a nerd. He also made skinny black ties hot again, for which the entire male population of Britain owes a world of gratitude.

2. John [my tour guide in the Vatican City]Not only does this guy know everything there is to know about the history of the Sistene Chapel, Michaelangelo and all the politics that ensued between many changes of Popes leading up to and during the Rennaissance period, he's from El Salvador, speaks three different languages, writes plays, and DJs RnB music at Irish pubs in Rome in his spare time. I also don't remember his last name, which makes him extra cool in a mysterious kind of way.

1. Stephanie Rice: [Australia's latest swimming legend]Finally an Olympic hero that ISN'T Ian Thorpe. If you're not Australian, let me explain. I am in no way a sports fan. But I am definitely a newly converted fan of this girl. On the eve of the Beijing Olympics she and fellow Olympic swimmer Eamon Sullivan split up, much to the love of newspapers around the country.

Now there are many theories on how to best get revenge after a breakup. Finding some arm candy to flaunt in front of the ex while the wounds are still open and ripe for hurtin'. Egging his house. Spray-painting 'Cheater' on his car. The first is self-defeating. The second and third are kind of illegal. Shunning the traditional stuff, Stephanie Rice followed Oprah's wise words: "They say getting thin is the best revenge. Success is much better."

Nothing says "Suck it, bitch" like 3 gold medals, two world records and enough money in sponsorships to be able to retire comfortably at 19 years old. She is a shining example to broken hearted girls the world over. Now, if only I could swim...

In a Coma- End of Part 1.

2008-08-29T06:28:00.000-07:00

* * *

To most people, shufflers make no sound at all.

But to me, even a shuffle means everything.

Shrouded in darkness, the slightest movement – the way the air changes direction when an arm passes over your head, or the way the morning nurse smells like mustard and the afternoon one’s hands feel like sandpaper when they brush past mine – these are all clues about the scene before me. They are all eagerly embraced as signs that I’m still so very much alive.

Of all my visitors, the Shuffler is the only one that still eludes me.

I can almost see the Shuffler. I’ve become quite fond of him. Or her. I can’t be too sure. But I imagine him, all the same. He comes in every day. Around the time the sunlight tickles my right cheek. The number of shuffles is always the same. A shuffle and a click indicate the opening of the door, another props it against the wall and then there’s a hesitant pause before they slowly make their way across the room to me.

He never speaks. I can barely hear him breathe.

My parents are my second most regular visitors. They always come together, each with their own private routine. Mixed in with my mother’s perfume is always the scent of a new bunch of flowers she proudly announces have arrived upon entering the room, as though they were newborns. “We have daffodils for you today, honey! Aren’t they divine? They were on sale at the gift shop and I just couldn’t resist…” and so on.

My father says nothing, but his silence tells more than my mother’s over-zealousness ever could. She scrambles to meet an imaginary quota of words that visitors get in the hour or so they spend sitting patiently by the bedside of a vegetable, a task no doubt made more difficult by my father’s failure to contribute to the task.

Every now and then he will (no doubt prompted by menacing looks my mother darts at him out the corner of her eye) clear his throat uncomfortably and throw in an awkward sentence about nothing in particular for good measure. “Saw the game tonight, son. 5-0 it was ridiculous. Never had a chance at the finals….”

She pats my hand at regular intervals, chats away and at some point in the middle of their time with me, I can always hear a stifled choke, a clearing of the throat and a deep breath that hangs in the air dramatically like a ballerina on a tightrope in the middle of the big top. Trying, like the doctors had told them, to stay positive in front of me, in case I can hear them.

I can. I can practically see them as I would if all I’d broken was a leg or an arm, only now I can feel them, I can breathe them in. Their grief hangs in the air so thick it threatens to suffocate me.

Their struggle for normalcy in a world totally foreign to them touches me, the way it never could have when I was normal myself. But they don’t know that. How can they?

I wait every day for them to discuss what I want to hear about the most.

The Shuffler leaves me no clues. He provides me with a reprieve from all the pity I get from everyone else. There is a kind of solidarity in that shuffle. A silent acknowledgment that it sucks to be me, and him too. No tears, no sighs. It's more like a single nod of respect. And a shuffle.

And he is gone again.

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In a Coma
In a Coma- Prologue
In a Coma- Part 1

"Education Revolution"?

2008-08-28T16:01:00.000-07:00

Do you think public education can be treated like a free market?

Discuss.

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Update: It's quite clear I study arts, and not commerce. James and Wikipedia have made me realise I misused the term 'free market'. What I meant to ask (though it's far less catchy than my original question) was this: Can the underlying philosophy of laissez faire- that is, that the order of things be determined by the natural forces of supply and demand- be applied to the public education system?

The reason I ask is because one of the Australian government's most recent steps towards a self-proclaimed 'education revolution' proposes that schools' performance be ranked across the board, and that this information be available to parents everywhere. Consistently badly performing schools may be shut down, merged with other schools, or have their principals sacked.

The argument for the policy is that public education is the government's economic investment into 'human capital'. It would render teachers and principals alike accountable for their schools' performance, and give them incentives to do well, placing schools in a competitive market environment. It has however come up against heavy criticism, with teachers' unions arguing that, unlike corporations, there is no fair way to rate how 'well' schools perform, and that students would only be disadvantaged by any funding cuts or dramatic changes to their school's structure that would take place as a direct result of such a rating.

With that in mind- discuss!

[Photo: CBS Local]

The Five-Year Itch*

2008-08-25T04:32:00.000-07:00

My friend sat behind a massive burger on an equally massive white plate. The kind of burger that's so big you have to use a knife and fork to eat it, in a cafe with wooden floorboards beneath you, waiters dressed in all black hovering above you, and artsy types sipping lattes with huge portfolios resting on their laps, beside you. But I digress.

So there's my friend, with the burger. She's just about finished sawing out her first perfect bite, and has lifted it to her mouth when she pauses, the juicy morsel suspended in mid-air.

"I am someone who is looking for love," she says, pointing her fork at me somewhat menacingly. "Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live-without-each-other love. And I don't think that love is here, in this expensive suite, in this lovely hotel in Paris."

I was about to point out that not only were we in fact, not in a hotel at all, but in the aforementioned cafe, but also, that we weren't in Paris, or anywhere near its continent, when I realised she had just recited a line from the final episode of Sex and the City**. It should have come as no surprise to me, since every lunch, coffee break and window shopping session I have had with many of my friends in the past few weeks always seems to play out like a scene from that beloved television series. They're all suffering the symptoms of what I like to call the 'five-year itch'.

It's not that I know a lot of people who've been with their respective partners for the past five years. It's just that as we near the end of our five-year university degrees we're beginning to freak out over the prospect of entering the next stage of our lives. In a few months' time, we will find ourselves shaking our limbs free from the shackles, or rather, adjusting our eyes to the light outside the shelter of, a life in the public education system. We can no longer put off the Big Decisions our parents have been warning us of for years on our own, like which career path to head down, when we're going to move out, what we're going to eat for lunch. You know. The big life-changing stuff.

All of a sudden planning for the future involves a lot more than finding out who's free on Friday night. It's thinking about life like an adult- how to find a job to keep you fed for the next couple years, how to earn enough on a graduate salary to pay the rent for the next six months, and how to have enough left over for a holiday once in a while. And in amongst all these new long-term worries, is a bigger one: is my current boyfriend or girlfriend 'the one' I should be with? It's not that my friends are thinking of getting hitched right away. But the concept of marriage is no longer something 'old people' do. We've found ourselves on the 'Getting Old' express train, with no sign of 'Casual Relationship' or 'One Night Stand' station in sight.

And the truth is, it's not just about settling down. We've been through the shitty exes, we've had our hearts broken in all manner of ways. What we want is something solid. "Is he/she solid material? We want solid, but not boring. Holy shit. Is the guy/girl I've been with for almost all of my university life Boring? What if there's something, or rather, someone else out there who's better for me and I'm missing out by staying with Boring? Am I settling for Boring?"

Cue the friend with the weight of the world on her shoulders and what looks like the quarter of a cow on her fork. She could very well be a twenty-something year old version of Sarah Jessica Parker, with all the Carrie-isms she's spitting at me now, all the while letting a perfectly good lunch grow colder by the second. You see, there is nothing wrong with her boyfriend. He worships her, and she him. They're good together. Comfortable. And that's been fine for the last few years.

But now, on the brink of life as an adult, she's not sure if 'fine' is 'enough'. They bicker constantly about little things that never used to annoy them that much before, but all of a sudden, seem to be the fulcrum on which the fate of their relationship teeters forebodingly (Wow. Fulcrum was the best analogy I could come up with there. I am a massive nerd.) Those things that used to be endearing. Like the way he never gets her jokes, or how he's overly sensitive about certain things. I try reasoning with her but she is beyond logical thought at this stage. The burger is starting to look pretty damn lonely on that plate.

I blame the fact that we are members of the Y generation. Many of us are borne of families who through many generations have sacrificed so that we might have the opportunities they could not afford. We know we're on to better things, and we've been brought up, not only to work towards, but also to expect, the best for ourselves. So our main concern now, is whether what we have is what is best for us. Whether what we feel, after all we've invested in it, resembles that elusive Sex and the City dream: 'real love'.

I can't say I've ever been with someone long enough to contract 'the itch'. But I think that those of you who do have it, should stop scratching. Or you'll end up losing sight of whatever it is you've got. For all of Carrie's many theories about love, taught to us over six years worth of monologue voiceovers (my personal favourites including: "I've done the merry-go-round. I've been through the revolving door. I feel like I met somebody I can stand still with for a minute", and "...the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you find someone to love the you you love, well that's just fabulous.") the woman still ended up wearing a wedding dress in the middle of the street, yelling, "YOU HAVE HUMILIATED ME!" at some guy in a limousine and trying her best to behead him with a small bouquet of flowers.

The thing is, I'm not sure any adult I know would really bother with a relationship for five years that is 'ridiculous' or 'inconvenient', nor would any normally functioning adult ever be physically incapable of living without another person, no matter how much they loved them. I don't mean to be the boring cynic, and I definitely don't know much about the 'L word'. But I'm pretty certain people change significantly over time. You can never be too sure if you're with an Aidan or a Big. But if you're honest with yourself, and ignore the self-inflicted onset of itchy adulthood, you'll be able to know whether the person you've got is worth taking that risk on for a little longer.

---------------------
* I've hyperlinked references to Sex and the City for anyone who is not a fan. There will be a few: the product of many a late-night Youtube session. There are movie spoilers. Don't say I didn't warn you.

** [Alright, fine, the friend is a fictional amalgum of a bunch of friends' five year itch tales. None of the above anecdote actually happened. Except for the part about the awesome burger and the semi-pretentious-but-still-cosy cafe. That part did. And yes. It was a really good one, just so you know.]

Photos sourced from: http://www.hbo.com/city

In a Coma- Part 1

2008-08-17T21:32:00.000-07:00

Mia

She replaced the receiver in its cradle slowly.

Her hand remained outstretched, and felt heavy as though it were still holding the phone.

Just minutes before she had seen what damage hands could do.

She stared at it. The pale, long, fingers ended in perfectly manicured nails. Small. Unassuming. Dulled by the beam of the florescent panel directly above her head. She watched it tremble. She observed her own hand as though it belonged to someone else.

The draught sliding down between the crimson silk of her dress and her spine would not quit, though the glass door was folded shut behind her. Her bare shoulder blades lunged toward one another to shake it off. Once. Twice, for good measure. She could hardly breathe. Those same long fingers curled around the edge of the door and shoved it across.

She sharply sucked in the night air like she was taking her first hit, and it shot straight past her tongue to the back of her skull. It stung her cheeks- pink with cold and too much rouge- and dotted her arms with goosebumps. An empty shell, she trudged through the dark on autopilot. Her eyes remained fixed on what was directly in front of her, with no spark of interest in anything in particular. Her legs took her further and further away in long, steady strides. With each one she breathed a little easier. She did not look back once.

Alone, all the hours that followed passed by her in a blur, as scenery would a moving train. The words- 'what have I done?'- chanted to her, as if willing her to think about what they meant. Faster, and faster still, in time with the clack-clack of her heels on the pavement. But her legs wouldn't let her stop walking.

It was something about the constancy of the rhythm of her steps and her breathing, and yes, even the chanting, that gradually dulled her senses after a time. No, not bitterness. Just a numb sensation, a familiar sort of indifference that comforted her as much as the sight of her apartment building in the near distance. The fabric of her dress clung to her thighs uncomfortably and her calves burned, but it was a good kind of pain.

Living no longer held any joy up ahead. Death seemed to her just as empty a prospect.

But just when it seemed as though her mind might be sucked so far into that vacuum of self-indulgence that she would fade away completely, she stepped off the sidewalk into oncoming traffic.

Bam.

A bus narrowly missed her ribcage by inches. And that rush, that chemical reaction that instinctively pulled her back onto the pavement, made all the difference she needed. It physically forced her blood, which usually ebbed and dripped reluctantly through her painfully thin body, to thrust itself into her heart.

She woke up from her deep sleep, and saw the ground beneath her for the first time in days.

But it only lasted a second.

She slowly walked out onto the now near empty street, looking only at what was directly in front of her.

Things I did not need Facebook to tell me:

2008-08-11T08:38:00.000-07:00

1. John Doe has thrown an octopus at Jane.
2. Random creepy man/event organiser/person with whom you share 20 mutual friends but who you have never met: wants to be your friend.
3. Jane Doe is ranked smartest, hottest, most desired for marriage, and has the best personality of all your friends.
4. Joe Bloggs has a sore bum.
5. You have been reviewed on Sparkey 10 times this week. 9 people would not date you. Click here for more information!

Love in this (Asian) Club.

2008-08-05T04:50:00.000-07:00

Aw, look at that. Back in 04. First year uni. Finally, drinking could be done legally, and we could walk into a club and look a bouncer right in the eye without fear of being turned away. Born in 1986 baby, and don't you forget it!

Clubbing was definitely a rite of passage for me and many of my friends. If we'd been taking a crash course in becoming independent adults, clubbing provided us with chapters 1, 2 and 3 of the mannual: how to get drunk, how to pick up, and how to cure a painful hangover. It used to be a whole-week affair, from choosing a venue to figuring out how we were getting there and back (in the days when all of us had learner's permits and were forced to use public transport).

Back then, our idea of getting dressed up was picking out a nice top, a pair of jeans, and some black eyeliner. 'Friday night' would be the subject of every phone conversation we had throughout the week, particularly if what's-his-name was going, and he was bringing his friend, whom we were hoping to set up with what's-her-face. The cool kids (really, the most attractive ones) got their pictures snapped for the club event's promotional website, which everyone scanned eagerly at some point in the following week.

But by the end of the year we had had our fill of the clubbing experience. Somehow- lining up for an hour to get in, paying astronomical prices for drinks if we weren't still tipsy from cheap vodka mixers at one of the packed out bars nearby, running to the bathroom and sticking one finger in an ear while yelling into the phone "YES MUM, I'M COMING HOME SOON I PROMISE!", and sitting in McDonalds on George Street at 3am waiting for the trains to start running again with the smell of stale vomit in the air - lost their initial appeal.

Every now and then we'd run out of other ways to amuse ourselves, forget how bad our last stretch of clubbing weekends really was and venture out again, ever hopeful that this time would be different. And sometimes we'd get lucky with a good DJ and a fun crowd. But now that we've all pretty much graduated, the people we push and shove past to get to the bar or to the exit no longer look cool. They just look really young.

On my first weekend back to Sydney, I ignored all of this and headed out to what is one of the worst examples of an Asian club. I'm almost ashamed to admit it. The night only confirmed for me what I already knew: that there is no reason why any self-respecting 22 year old should be at Martin Place Bar - yes, for Bamboo- on any given Saturday, no matter how bored, (or indeed desperate) they are. Yet, that's where I found myself last weekend. Cringing all the way to the front of the line, through the red rope barriers and past the metal detectors.

A lot of things have changed about Asian RnB clubs since "my day". The girls, for one, are much skankier. Or maybe I just notice it more now than I would've before. You're also far more likely to get shot (I was at UN the week after the notorious drive-by, and screamed along with everyone else in the queue when a car outside backfired...I went inside later regardless). But some things never change. We are still the most modestly dressed in the joint (thank God). And the main elements of the practice that we were once so in awe of now feel routine. Here are some of them, so you can save yourself the trouble of experiencing it for yourself if you haven't already:

1. The entrance: Walking into the club feels and looks just like any video clip by Usher would, if all the people in it were Asian. If you're a group of girls, even more so. It's usually just starting to fill up, and the ratio of guys to girls is probably 2:1. The ones checking your friends out are a mixture of the overt admirers and the ones who think they're subtle, but are just as bad- they tend to stare, then pretend they were looking at the opposite end of the room once you've noticed them staring. We always walk past them in a straight line, one after the other, heading for the cloakroom, with, I'll admit, a little defiant strut. (Who wouldn't? It's an Usher video, after all.)

2. The podium dancers: Around the middle of the night out, the 'entertainment' will inevitably begin. At some places it can be a live MC (once one of the original members of Blackstreet even came out to perform 'No Diggity'), at others, a breakdancing troupe. But at Bamboo, it's always customary to have a 'dancer' writhe around in the spotlight for a good 15 minutes. As soon as the lights come on, signalling the start of the show, every guy (except the ones who've picked up by now, if they're smart) will flock to that stage, camera phones on the ready. They will stand there, mouths slightly agape, watching her. The girls will hang behind, the slutty ones carefully keeping note of some of her 'moves' for later in the night, the less slutty ones bitching that she's far TOO slutty, ugly, and can't dance. And as for us? We generally just stand there awkwardly, trying to continue dancing on our own, but eventually head to the bar to take advantage of the temporarily short queue. It's always at this point that I ask myself if we're in an RnB club, or a strip bar in which we, and every other girl here, are part of that 'entertainment'. And then I wonder if there's much difference between the two, and kick myself for coming, yet again.

3. The 'talent': The short answer is this- there is none. After our first three clubbing experiences, we all knew this to be the case. There are generally only about two decent looking guys in an Asian RnB club. The first has his arm permanently attached to his equally decent looking girlfriend. They will either end up making out in a corner, or screaming at each other because some guy tried to buy her a drink (by leaning down and yelling in her ear, disguised as an intimate whisper), or some girl tried to dance with him. The second will probably be found in the gym the next morning pumping weights, wearing the same t-shirt, and with just as much gel in his hair as the night before. You can bet that when he's not in the club, that's where he lives most other nights.

4. The mating dance: Let's not be coy, people. If you're 18, and you're in an RnB club, you're there to pick up, or at least flirt with the idea. It's okay to admit it! After all, it's hard to dance in any other way but 'provocative' to mysognistic/suggestive lyrics like: 'Get low, get low', 'Doncha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?' and 'The sweat drips down my balls, all these females crawl'. And just like on the Discovery channel, there's an identifiable silent ritual of courtship involved.

In Asian RnB clubs, friends dance in tight circles, in a weird way somewhat reminescent of the heel and toe, remixed by Timbaland. While shameless guys will shun more tactful methods, and push their way into the circle flailing their arms around like their lives depended on it and smiling energetically at their target (before making a hasty exit upon being just as blatantly rejected), the more seasoned clubbers prefer to sidle closer and closer to the circle, and ultimately, end up with their arms around the waist of the object of the hunt. Girls do their part. Some dance seductively with each other in plain sight of potential suitors, others just walk right up to a guy and the rest is history. And still others play the 'eye contact' game until someone makes a move.

I learned this the hard way. A friend of mine, a guy and regular clubber, once confirmed my suspicions: 'If you look any guy in the eye at at a club, he's going to think you're interested.' Which is fine, it just makes walking around a little inconvenient- you're sure to bash into anyone within a 5m radius of you on your way to the bathroom while you concentrate on keeping your eyes on the floor.

5. Our Entertainment: I'm not going to lie. I did have a little fun that night, as I almost always seem to when clubbing, because my friends and I are different. We've never spent hours lining up for bathroom mirrors so we can touch up our makeup, nor have we ever needed to constantly tug on mini skirts to make sure they're at least partly doing their job of covering our asses, and we definitely still don't bother scanning the room for talent. We've always been too busy dancing self-consciously, or, (as is more the case nowadays) like idiots with our hands waving around to the beat, warily shielding each other from sleazy would-bes and laughing at the guys who dance funny.

When I spotted the night's first fresh puddle of vomit in the girls' bathroom, I knew it was about time we left. But not before we posed like celebrities for the club's roving photographer.
"Do you think we'll get on the Internet?" my friend asked me in the afterglow of the flash.
"I hope so," I replied instinctively.

Yeah, some things never change.

In a Coma- Prologue*

2008-08-01T07:54:00.000-07:00

The lights go off one by one.

I make no move.

Another light goes off somewhere behind me. I can hear it – it sounds more like a gunshot than a switch being flicked, but that suits me just fine.

Bam. Another light; then another, and another. Only one remains, and that light is directly above me.

“… So what am I supposed to do?” I whisper to no one in particular.

The silence deafens me, much more so than the sounds just moments before. That’s when I realise it.

“I’m all alone.”

The light goes out.

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* Prologue by Young Jang

In a Coma*

2008-08-01T07:44:00.000-07:00

“When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.”- Charles Austin Beard

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* I started this story in parts about a year ago, and abandoned it soon after. I'll be posting the new version up in parts every Thursday. Stay tuned for part 1!

Going Home

2008-08-01T00:30:00.001-07:00

I think I'd been preparing to go home since the day I left it.

(Taken on the flight from Rome to London. Couldn't resist.)

It was a New Year's Eve flight,and I was heading for Sydney airport just as everyone else was heading to various grassy spots and hotel rooms and swanky clubs to wait for the fireworks over the Harbour Bridge, everyone to get drunk like never before, and...oh yeah, the new year to arrive at midnight.

The thing about long flights is, no matter how much you're looking forward to getting to your destination, you always feel like just giving up, turning around and crawling back into bed about halfway through. Unless you're one of those crazy people who likes to fly, or can afford to fly Business class. (Bastards :P)After about 11 hours of waiting for some kind air steward(ess) to announce it was midnight I realised the lights weren't going to come on, and that there were no party poppers, champagne glasses or funny hats to be had, and slept the remaining 13 hours of my journey.

All that sleep somehow renewed my excitement for all things London and Europe and Not Home, though. The pilot cracked the first joke (of many to come during my trip) about London's reputation for dreary weather when announcing the temperature, and said, "Welcome to London." [Side note: I've noticed that that sentence, 'Welcome to London' is never ever followed by an exclamation mark. Always a statement, much like "The sky is blue", "Grass is green", or "We're all going to die from global warming". And not once have I ever heard it said after anything remotely positive, like: "You can't get music like THIS in Sydney- Welcome to London!" It's more like an apology: "You haven't gotten a bank account with Barclays after 6 months of phone messages, in-person interviews and complaints? Well! Welcome to London."]

But I didn't leave hating the place, as my previous posts might mistakenly suggest. I feel like I lived an entire year in it's first half. I had an awesome time, and learned a million and one lessons I wouldn't have if I'd been anywhere else at that point in time. But I kept reminding myself that the time would eventually come to an end, so I would have to make the most of it whilst being ready for it to run out, too. I arrived knowing almost no one and nothing about Australia's so-called 'motherland', but made a whole new life for myself there, complete with new friends, weekend plans, hobbies and an altered dress sense and musical taste to boot.

Leaving London was as understated and unremarkable an affair as my arrival in Sydney. A brief hug and kiss, and one last quick glance-around later(in direct contravention of my personal rule to never turn back once you leave something or someone for good or with a hint of regret), and I was homeward bound. When I arrived in Sydney, I had a huge grin plastered on my face ready to see my parents for the first time in almost eight months, only to find no one there waiting. Long periods of travel have made me resourceful though. I called them using 1800 reverse (Holly Valance is useful for something, I guess), finally found them, and had my long-awaited (but now, somewhat anti-climatic) reunion embrace.

The moment of truth actually came during the last leg of my 23 hour flight. It was only then I finally accepted that my time in London had come to an end.

I'd just spent eight hours in transit at Tokyo airport. I spent it going online to see if anyone in London was awake and on Facebook, thinking about how much my upcoming semester was going to suck after such a teriffic one abroad, and generally just wanting to turn around and fly back. For all it's hang-ups it had been my home for the last eight months, and I missed it like an old friend, or a dress you weren't sure you should buy but which you will agonise over, and inevitably go back to and splurge on after about an hour.

While waiting to take off, a steward asked me about where I'd been. He nodded sympathetically when I told him I'd been gone for ages, and had been in London for most of it. I languished in the familiar old sound of the Australian accent all around me. But I talked about London for probably longer than is expected from a response in small talk. Maybe I was still in denial about the fact that I was no longer in UK airspace. "Going home?" he asked. "Yes.." I said slowly, testing out the word, realising it was the first time I'd acknowledged it out loud since leaving. The Australian high school students behind me chatted about how dramatic their two week stint in Japan had been and how emotional they were to be going home at last. I grimaced. 'Try eight months' I thought. 'Then see how you feel.'

I couldn't sleep the rest of the way back. I kept darting between nostalgic memories from London and tentative predictions about Sydney. I wasn't sure whether I was looking forward to, or dreading our descent. Only one thing was for sure- I wanted to be off this stupid plane asap.

My decision came to me on its own, painlessly. The pilot's announcement was simple, and I remember it word for word because of the way it made me feel:

"Good morning everyone, we will be arriving at Sydney Airport in about 20 minutes. The time there will be 7am. For all of you travelling here on holiday or for business, I'd like to welcome you to Sydney. And for those of you who are coming back, welcome home!"

The Japanese exchange students behind me cheered.

I smiled.

Home.

Claustrophobia: London style

2008-07-29T06:29:00.000-07:00

"claus.tro.pho.bic adj
1. unpleasantly or uncomfortably confined"

They say that London’s population is 20 times that of Sydney’s. To imagine what that feels like recall, if you can, your most claustrophobic experience. It might be that time your flight was delayed by hours and when they finally called you to board every single person ran for the counter at once, forming more of a mass exodus than an orderly queue to the plane. Or perhaps you’ve been to a McDonalds in a foreign country (interpret that as you will, fellow racists), where the word ‘queue’ doesn’t show up in the local dictionary and you'd swear a cheeseburger was the only known anecdote to some mysterious poisonous gas released into the atmosphere by aliens from Planet Zurtox. Now picture said nightmare on the sidewalk of a major central intersection, next to an ATM, on a train platform…basically any publicly shared facility. (And you wonder why Brits are notorious for their whingy-ness: it’s a tough life.)

What I find more fascinating, though, are the lesser-known characteristics of an overcrowded city. The little things that probably happen every day, so often that they usually go unnoticed. These are the moments that make you realise you’ve truly become a local. Two in particular stood out to me in what has to be London’s biggest intersection: the Tube.

Now, for anyone outside the UK, there are a few things you need to know about riding the Tube to understand what’s to follow. Transport For London (TFL) estimates that three million people travel on it every day. There are over 20 underground stations just metres away from each other on railway lines that run all the way around the city and connect a wide mix of commuters. It’s probably the most convenient and efficient way of getting around, but for that reason, also the most crowded. So you can imagine how crazy it can get, especially during peak hour. Amazingly, that good old British reserve remains in tact even then.

It’s an unwritten rule that you don’t make eye contact with strangers on the Tube. Forget striking up random conversations with friendly neighbours. No matter if you’re sat directly opposite them for an entire journey, or forced to stand nose-to-sweaty-nose with them for a good 15-20 minutes. You are always to look either down and left or right, or up and away, to maintain the illusion that all of you have your own bubble of personal space, even in the most crowded of conditions.

I was rushing to meet someone once, late as usual. I just made it on the Tube, and, stressed and out of breath, decided to use the twenty minutes that would otherwise have been spent sitting in silence, to finish getting ready. Makeup, hair, eyebrows, the whole works. I spent almost the whole journey doing all the little things you would ordinarily only dream of doing in the privacy of your bedroom. When I’d finally decided I now looked as good as humanly possible without the aid of a straightener, slimming underwear and a plastic surgeon, I let out a little sigh of relief.

I put away my compact mirror and all my little brushes, smoothed out my dress and folded my hands in my lap to enjoy the rest of the trip. Only then did I look up and realise I’d been oblivious to the man in the suit sat opposite me. He had a slight smirk on his face but looked away quickly as soon as I saw him. Mortified, I realised he’d been watching me transform from Manic Mess to Composed Commuter the entire time. And I hadn’t even noticed. As soon as I’d found my seat I’d somehow forgotten that 50 or so people sat just metres away from me in the same carriage. I thought I’d become invisible. But it’s impossible, even with etiquette’s ridiculous social conditioning, to ignore what’s all around you. And it makes for embarrassing times, especially if you're the type that wears your every mood like a nasty coffee stain, like me.

The other Tube story involves, funnily enough, an actual coffee stain. Note to all commuters: never make any sudden movements as your train/bus/taxi/tram/ferry takes off. Even if you’ve survived a million such instances unscathed, you never know how unlucky you could become. I mean, what are the odds that you will one day decide to lean over and take a sip of a new cup of coffee at the exact same moment the tall man next to you will decide to lift his arm to reach for the safety bar above you? Slim to none? What are the chances you will happen to be wearing a white shirt when this huge misalignment of the planets occurs?

The burning sensation of the coffee, pretty much everywhere, stunned me into submission for a few minutes while he apologised profusely, making it seem as though I was much more annoyed than I was. What made it funnier though, was the fact that we both had a fair way to travel together before we could part ways and be done with the awkwardness of it all. Again with the silence and the non-eye-contact, but this time with a huge gaping coffee stain he could not look away from, because, in our crowded carriage there was no way either of us could politely move a comfortable distance away from the other. It’s almost as bad as that cartoon where Colonel Sanders is trapped in an elevator with a chicken.

Isn’t it bizarre the lengths we are willing to go to pretend we’re alone out of self-preservation, before we would ever admit that we're really just surrounded by people just like us?

The checklist

2008-07-19T19:44:00.000-07:00

Things from London I will miss:
1. Strawberries
2. Decent buskers at all tube stops
3. Trend-watching all the fashionable people that walk past
4. Funky markets- Portobello and Spitalfields, particularly
5. Big Ben
6. Pret
7. Funky bars
8. Running for the tube and just making it through the doors as the warning beeps go off and they're about to close
9. Topshop, All Saints and Zara
10. That column in the Metro where people try to find other people they've "shared a moment with" on the tube

Things from London I will not miss:
1. People who stare at you on the tube for no particular reason, especially the ones that smile without looking away
2. People who bash into you without saying sorry, turning around or even slowing their gait
3. Longer than life queues to cross the street, go to the bank, get a coffee, withdraw from an ATM, and pretty much everywhere else
4. Black snot
5. Replacement buses and tube line closures
6. Dirty Halls' kitchens
7. Dirty/loud people IN halls
8. Running for the tube when you're really late and just missing it as the doors close in front of you
9. Tabloid newspapers
10. Obsession with all things Big Brother and all drugged out fugmo celebrities

(A little less than) a month left of London life...

2008-06-19T16:26:00.000-07:00

Summer has officially arrived in London. We're nearing the end, friends.

I wish I'd been a more dutiful blogger in the past six months but it's not too surprising, as there are often days when I can't even remember what I've done in the last 24 hours, let alone the last week. I spent an entire day lounging under a tree in Regent's Park with a friend of mine, eating strawberries and listening to music. We left only when we absolutely had to, our speech slower, sunglasses perched on our heads, eyes droopy and almost drowsy with this relaxed, mellow vibe that a day without watches, filled only with shameless self-indulgence, provides.

With the end of classes and living on campus has come a string of similarly gloriously unstructured days and seemingly endless nights. It gets dark at about 10pm, allowing the phrase "The night is young" to be batted around much more than usual.

Looking over my early entries buzzing with Exchange Student Enthusiasm, I realise now I've come full circle in my relationship with this great city. By that I don't mean I love London any less. But like any other love, it's changed. It's no longer irrational or head-over-heels. Having lived here for the better half of a year, I understand what makes it tick: the good, the bad and the downright ugly.

You see, London-ites are like members of one big dysfunctional extended family. Sometimes it's like everyone around you is some distantly related third cousin. The kind you've seen at family dinners for years but never talked to because you weren't sure you'd have anything to say.

In London, there's a greater chance the said cousin will be a pleasant surprise, not nearly as awkward or boring as you'd previously suspected. They're the genuinely awesome, quirky people who you love bumping into in the street, chatting to about something random for about 5 minutes and leaving, feeling a little chirpier. Like the drunk/high on crack man sat slumped over at a bus stop in East London the other night, who cheerfully called out as I walked past, "Good night Queen. Beautiful girl." Or the old man who saw me holding two huge bouquets of flowers in Covent Garden and bent down to examine them closer as I walked past, "Those are beautiful, aren't they?" to which I agreed, pausing to let him smell them, and moved on.

But then there's those people you instantly regret talking to, who make you cringe and eye the emergency exit signs out the corner of your eye so you can make a hasty escape ASAP. The kind of cousin you tell yourself is only related to you by marriage, grew up in Adelaide or Tasmania, and bears no identical DNA of yours whatsoever. Like the balding potbellied man who made room for me to walk in front of him at a crowded Tube stop, to which I said thank you, only to hear, "No, you first, Ping Pong" and a chorus of beer breathy laughter. Or the sleazy guys who yell out "Ni hao" or "Konichiwa" in the street with a gleeful smile plastered over their smug little faces as though they're really proud of themselves for being so worldly and culturally aware [Insert extra dose of sarcasm here]. Or even the friend-of-a-friend who asked me, in all seriousness what the difference between Japan and China was, and what their "beef" was all about.

I'm convinced (or perhaps just stupidly optimistic) that there are more of the former than the latter in the box of chocolates that is London. But after a million random encounters (too many for this blog), I've passed that phase where you think everything is perfect, that nothing could go wrong and that you feel sorry for the poor suckers living anywhere else in the world. I soon found myself turning on to "I-Never-Noticed-This-Before-But-Now-That-I-Have-It-Really-Bugs-Me" Street, which soon became "I-can't-remember-any-of-the-good-stuff-what-am-I-doing-here" Avenue.

Luckily, that was a short road that has inevitably led to where I'm at now: a dead end that has no name.

I love London for all the reasons I mentioned in January and too many more to count. But I've discovered that all the wonderful things you can only find in a big city all come at a price.

Yuppie moment.

2008-06-13T06:32:00.000-07:00

I am sat in a cafe on Brick Lane, leather jacket clad, typing on my powerbook, a blue 1920's ring on the fourth finger of my right hand tap-tap-tapping the silver keys. Underground rap over a sultry jazz beat thumps in the background, and the words "I exist despite you" linger on the back wall in neon red lights. The uber-cool baristas behind the counter smile, one with a pen somehow entangled in his curly hair, another with impossibly huge glasses and an impossibly bald head. To my left- my mobile, wireless username card and soy chai latte. To my right- two others on laptops, modern salads and macbooks, and piles of photocopied textbook articles.

Here I am.

Everything has changed.

2008-05-25T04:01:00.000-07:00

"These times are so uncertain. There's a yearning undefined, and people filled with rage.

We all need a little tenderness. How can love survive in such a graceless age?

And the trust and self-assurance that lead to happiness are the very things we kill, I guess.

Pride and competition cannot fill these empty arms.
And the wall they put between us, you know it doesn't keep us warm."

- "The Heart of the Matter", India Arie

The X.

2008-05-23T07:12:00.000-07:00

I mentioned I would write about this a long time ago. And now the time has come: What is up with the 'x', people?

My first encounter with a 'x' was someone else's. My flatmate came into my room one night gushing about some beautiful boy she'd met in a club, jumping onto my bed to read out his first text since that night so that together, we could dissect the mysteries within it that blatantly spell out how 'into' her he was in neon lights:

"...what you up to next week? Xx"

...say what now?

At first I thought London boys were just a tad too flirty. And yeah, they are. Boys I was only on a first-name basis with would text kisses. But then I realised the 'x' is more of a gender neutral punctuation mark at the end of any text. Exhibit A, casual text from my friend Kate:

"hey, what do u fancy doing? If u are free on thurs by any chance we could have a proper cocktail evening in london? xxxx"

And even between boys as in exhibit B, a generic message from a guy to his entire contact list:

"What u doing this coming Friday night?...keep it free.x"

Maybe I'm just a prude, but the in-text-kiss seemed to be in the same vein as the facebook-poke. (By now it's common knowledge that if more than one poke is exchanged between members of the opposite sex (or the same sex if so inclined), there's definitely a sign of mutual flirtage/sexual tension.)

But it soon became apparent that the deceptively casual nature of the 'x' is what gives it it's infuriating capability to elude the unwitting recipient. To wit: girls, have you noticed that the kisses are so much more free-flowing when you first meet a guy, and soon run out like water on tap in rural Australia the longer you've known them? And guys, doesn't it seem like you get more kisses when a favour is asked of you via text?

And hasn't everyone at some point or another, wondered why a text that would ordinarily demand a 'x', for some reason has disappeared? What, you think, have you done to deserve this? For people who have become accustomed to regular kisses, the absence of said kiss suddenly makes the message seem harsh, abrasive even, though it may not have been intended by the texter who hastily typed it out while rushing to make the tube. But though you can't really be annoyed at the lack of an 'x' because it's only meant to be a subconscious afterthought, the confusion caused still lingers. The 'x' has therefore changed the very nature of texting itself.

Coming from a city and a generation where sms is sometimes used to flirt, but more often to pass on information as quickly and cheaply as possible, the concept of a single letter wreaking so much havoc is a foreign one to me. After all, in person I generally limit my kisses to significant others, and cheek kisses to close air-kissable friends. Even hugs I tend to restrict to friends that I haven't seen for at least a week-long period.

So why a need to kiss-in-text? It's just mindgames of a facebook age, people. I only have one local friend in London who refuses to subscribe to a signature 'x', 'xx', or, as with the more extreme flirters in my circle, 'Xxx' (gramatically correct as they are here :P) at the end of his texts. Sure, he starts each message addressing me as "loser", "buttplug" or "doylum" interchangeably, but at least i know he's sincere.

Smoke Signal

2008-05-18T17:56:00.000-07:00

One of the best decisions I've made on my exchange to London has definitely been picking Music Radio as one of my electives. The details surrounding it are a little hazy now, but I know that I went to a lot of trouble to juggle all my other subjects so I could take it. Whoever wrote the little blurb for it in the subject handbook did a pretty good job of convincing me that it was a good idea:

"...produce a series of stimulated live broadcasts in which your all round programme-making skills and wider music knowledge will be reinforced, nurtured and assessed. The broadcasts incorporate the key ingredients of the music programme genres."

As shallow as it sounds, the little radio experience I'd had before coming here included just one semester and a quarter of radio journalism, a lot of late nights editing in a creepy-yet-cool-underground-esque studio, a number of too-long interviews, and a past student techie named Brendan who had beautifully tattooed arms, always wore skinny jeans and some sort of man-cuff, and one of those oversized African style ear piercings. So imagine my surprise when I found a group of about 15 really media-savvy students who ran, presented and produced a uni radio station all by themselves. They're like a mini corporation of midget adults.

I definitely felt that I was in over my head. These guys know what year George Michael released Freedom, the names of every one of Lauryn Hill's 5 (or so, Steven, correct me if I'm wrong?:P) children, and just how much the top radio presenters get paid every year. Words like "branding", "tagline", radio-speak like "OB", "bed" and "sweeper" get bantered around like yester-generation's "whatever" and "i'm audi". They pretty much all know their way around a mixing desk, have at some stage presented their own show and can recite the history of radio like Americans can the pledge of allegiance. Never have I seen a group of people who not only live, but eat, breathe and lust for music, and radio, this much.

I can't say I've come to share that same passion in my time here, but I've definitely developed a growing interest in something that I'd never taken that seriously before. It had nothing to do with journalism, but the medium itself has evolved a lot more in the UK than in Australia and for that reason alone, it fascinates me. Having said that, I also met most of my friends here through my radio class or through Smoke radio, and that kind of lends itself to my having a greater affection for radio now than ever before.

Little known fact, friends: when I was about 10 years old, I used to pretend I was a radio DJ quite a bit. My friend has this cool study with two long black desks in an L-shape each with their own computer. In a room truly befitting of the 90s, there were also tape decks in between them, We used to have a desk each where we'd spend ages pretending we had our own radio show, and play pop songs when we got tired of talking. We probably moved on to the traditional "hospital", "restaurant" and "school" games we were probably more expected to play, later on, but it was fun while it lasted.

But this semester I got to 'live the dream', as it were. In the last broadcast week of the year, Smoke Radio put on "smoke's out for the summer- SO4S", with back-to-back hosted radio programmes each day and specialist music shows at night. I was really lucky to co-host Smoke Signal each day with my friend James, a third year radio student and radio extroadinaire!:P In the vein of Wendy Harmer's old 2Day FM breakfast show, we had a debate each day on things like Sex and the City, bad boys, reality television and horoscopes. I even got to interview Natty, an up-and-coming London reggae-esque singer who I'm now kind of a fan of.

I was pretty nervous on the first day, particularly when James said "You're here on Smoke Signal with James, the housewives' favourite", and glanced over at me to finish off the intro, to which I said lamely, "and...Jane." But after all our non-verbal cues were down pat, I started to pick up the general vibe/pace of the show, and even managed to dub myself "The Token Australian", and it ran a lot smoother.

However, the Smoke Radio Awards were on Thursday night, which felt like the Academy awards of radio for me. Yes I drank. Yes, a lot. How much? Let's just say I learned the hard way never to mix red and white wine. They don't call it unlimited for nothing, folks. The Friday morning show was a tough one.

Good thing is, if you missed it they've podcasted some of the best bits from each day's shows on the smoke radio website. (It makes me sound much more articulate than I probably was for the majority of it). You can have a listen to bits from Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday's shows here.

Barcelona

2008-05-10T16:36:00.000-07:00

When I told two of my friends I was going to Barcelona, the same expression lit up both their faces. It was a mix between nostalgia and excitement. They both told me how great it would be, and how lucky I was to be going there. But neither could explain why. Well, I've been there and back and, when meeting said friends again to debrief, I talked at a faster rate than usual, even for me. They both nodded eagerly in response, and then, the unthinkable- I found my face lighting up with the same look I'd seen on theirs. Sitting there in silence with them, speechless, I realised I too was at a loss, no more able to articulate the appeal of the city than they had been. Someone once said that "we don't remember days, we remember moments". So here are a few. Maybe this will help a little.

Sipping on sweet sangria with a stranger before a crisp white tablecloth. To my left a courtyard teeming with tourists, to my right, a balconied courtyard. Feeling a soft breeze on my cheeks, talking about everything: the futility of love, the impermanent lifestyle of the traveller, the misunderstood beauty of religion. And it feels like I have all the time in the world, and anything is possible.

Craning my neck as far as it will go, the sun melting the cheese off the pizza in my hands. Staring up at 80 years of devotion to a dead architect's vision on the drawing board. A church spanning a whole block without being at all ostentatious, so much man-made effort taken to seem organic. Pockets scattered all over its face to shelter detailled scenes from different stages in Christ's life.

Emerging from the dark cavern held up by heavy wooden beams that cradles Picasso's earliest works. Sun filtering through the entrance in the distance. Portugese jazz (or Spanish, I couldn't tell) echoing off the stone-covered walls of the alleyway. An old man strumming his guitar to a steady staccato rhythm. A stranger staring, mesmerised. Taking a moment to see- for the first time, really see- the busker lost in his own element, as crowds of others walk past him with only a half-hearted sideways glance.

A little girl tug on her father's hand as a signal to stop mid-walk, while her head follows the path of a tiny puppy waddling past her nonchalantly. The whole world is stopping for this dog. The girl's wide-eyed expression, so filled with amazement and so beautifully unassuming.

MySpace's fashionable child launches new designers

2008-05-08T07:48:00.000-07:00

"now. look in ur personal basket and lemme know if u happy with wot i've done to ur fashionspace stry. i want to use it today. it's terrific by the way"

(Hemyca promotional shot, Fashionspace)

Usually I use the headlines i originally propose when I file my stories, as the headlines for my blog posts, just to retain a little semblance of creative integrity/glory. But this time- i believe for the first time- my original headline was actually USED in the final published article! Woot! About five words in total were changed from my original copy, and I pitched the idea for this story off my own bat, too, so seeing the final article here was extra sweet.

:)

Take the AlertNet Challenge

2008-05-02T08:14:00.001-07:00

here...because I wrote the questions and helped put it together this week!

Shakespeare's Globe.

2008-05-02T01:56:00.000-07:00

Shakespeare's Globe mixes old with new in 2008

Annie Mole

2008-04-30T15:43:00.000-07:00

I could've potentially interviewed anyone for this profile- Reuters commands that kind of authority- but I was drawn to Annie Mole, who's blog I stumbled on when scrambling for contacts for the 'London Love' story. She writes for Qype, and advertised their survey about commuters picking up on the Tube, on her blog.. She was pretty fun to interview, check out the profile here.

--
Update:
Holy Moley.
When my editor said this story would really spread (as the London Mayoral elections are on today, and poor Tube conditions and services are high on the agenda) I took it as a sign of encouragement, but didn't take it too seriously. I came into work this morning and found online versions of the story at:

The Mirror

Reuters Africa

Tiscali News

Yahoo! UK News

Yahoo! News

Yahoo! Canada News

NZ Herald

stv.tv

Thank God for Google.

Hedgehogs, chocolate and love.

2008-04-27T13:08:00.000-07:00

It's been a while folks, sorry!

(Prudence Staite White's chocolate interpretation of Andy Warhol's Marilyn Monroe)

I write this whilst procrastinating (from?) doing an assignment that's due tomorrow. Some things never change. It's my last one for semester though!:)

Since we last spoke, I've been to Denmark and Norway, and applied to a lot of places for work experience- about ten magazines and a couple of media agencies..

I've been at Reuters for almost two weeks now, and it's been everything I hoped for and more in terms of valuable work experience. I feel like my writing's improved tenfold in just ten days and it can only get better. Sure the one and a half hour tube journey there and back gets tiring, and I'm usually working from about 10am to 7or 8pm at night. But I try not to let myself get too whingy for too long, when I think about how long it's taken me to get to this point.

Here are some of the articles I've written so far. I'll try to post them up as I go along to save you the mass-catch-up-read.

Cute and prickly hedgehogs latest British pet fad.

Kids can make own chocolate art at new London show.

London love may be staring at you on the Tube.

London in a text message*

2008-04-06T03:35:00.000-07:00

I'm sure there was a time when people saved love letters to remind them of better days. They'd take them out of boxes where they were all stacked carefully, smooth out the creases and smile as they read particularly familiar lines. But I'm a member of Generation iPod. We don't have time for that shit. (i kid, i kid.) But seriously- people these days usually just save funny text messages for ages in their phones, to remind them of one crazy drunken night or another. I scrolled through mine today and found some from early in my trip i never got around to deleting. Here's a small sample of my favourites (for one reason or another) to give you a snapshot of some of my better, drunker, or just typical times here:

"Good news! Your favourite cousin is on his way home. Brace yourself for the most fun you've ever had on a wed night in London!:)"
(Damien, sent on my first Wednesday night in London)

"Hey sugar dumpling this is a rap, i got cheese in my pocket and i am ready to roll/and i am rolling down central ready 2 go/so if u like da candy man holla @ man YO!/And if you like my flow jus say so, or jus stay @ home with ur bro & tony yayo! YO!"
(Richard, my flatmate)

"Hey hows it going? Just thought id txt to see if you were alright and to check you werent too hungover this morning:-) im at work counting down the minutes till hometime! Hows the article going?x"
(Ross' first text)

"Hey my beautiful sausage i am going 2 bed knock on my window if u want 2 get in peace! x"
(Rich, when I couldn't find my keys and went out at night)

"and how are we feeling today missy? x"
(Sarah)

"Ok cool, just remember everything turned out great for will smith in the end and he became a multimillionaire and lived happily ever after, the same will happen to you! Or if it doesnt ill at least buy u a drink :-) see you later."
(Ross, when i was super stressed- guess the movie reference!)

"Thanks for not getting a fat ugly girl to do it!"
(Michael)

"You were amazing. I thought you were really dead."
(Nick, re: my performance in Clue)

"I'll be home in abt an hr :)"
(Chet, my flatmate, to let me know when to put the coookie mix in the oven)

"Thanks you fat person hater. Sweet dreams."
"Ha. Glad to see you made it out of bed. Oh and you keep misspelling sexy."
(Nick, following text messages from me calling him sexist)

"Snow!"
(Michael, to announce that it snowed last night)

Michael: "It's snowing!"
Me: "I know its so pretty, i've been running around taking photos everywhere"
Michael: "I'm so happy!"
(Our phone conversation when he rang me afterwards to announce it again)

"I'm orange! u must come down lol, there will be blue drink and everything!"
(Sarah, who dressed up as an octopus at the Chunder the Sea theme birthday party I went to last night)

*Russ: sorry its so long, it just turned out that way in the end :P

Sextyle Sells*

2008-03-27T08:40:00.000-07:00

By Jane Lee

“Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say and not giving a damn,” Gore Vidal once said. A famous 1950s American playwright, Vidal’s work could not have been further from that of fashion’s glamorous style authorities. But his definition of style rings true even today.

The word ‘style’ is often referred to as a static concept: “He’s so stylish”, or “She has style”. But in a world where what’s considered ‘beautiful’ is ever changing and trends come and go, style is merely the pursuit of someone else’s look. And fashion is the only currency in which it can hope to be bought.

Whether you like it or not, everything you wear, and the way you wear it, makes a statement to the rest of the world about who you are, or, more accurately, who you want them to think you are. Style means more than just wearing trendy clothes. It’s what those clothes represent- a worldview, a lifestyle and a personality- that make them so desirable.

You’d like to think that you’re immune to this superficial world. We could play coy and talk about individuality and inner beauty forever, but I’d rather cut right to the chase: everyone wants to look like ‘somebody’. People read you by the way you look. So why not make sure you write your own story?

As you read this, there is no doubt a concerned mother who is shaking her head at these words. ‘What about the skinny models setting bad examples for our daughters?’ she thinks to herself. ‘Are you suggesting that anorexia and bulimia are tools for stylistic self-empowerment?’ Of course not. Make no mistake: eating disorders cannot be justified in the name of style.

But it would be churlish to ignore the fact that ‘style’- wanting to look like something or someone- can be found in all of us. It only gets dangerous when we don’t have all three parts of Vidal’s formula in place, i.e. when we cannot distinguish who we are from what we want to say about ourselves.

Style Icons
We take our fashion cues from those goddesses that walk among us mere mortals: the beautiful ones. These are girls who are deemed physically beautiful by traditional standards; their facial features are proportionately placed, their figures are perfectly symmetrical. This is the feminine ideal; style 101. We want to look ‘beautiful’ because we want the awe and admiration from others that comes with it. If being beautiful meant being cross-eyed and having a hunchback, the plastic surgery industry would still boom, just to a different beat.

But style goes further than this. Style icons both inspire and influence us over generations, because of their chameleon-like ability to pull off different desired looks effortlessly, or because we can identify with the style they personify. Kate Moss may have been dubbed the queen of heroin chic, but her angelic face that first inspired Calvin Klein in 1992, combined with a reputation for week-long party antics, has forever transformed muddy boots, vests and oversized t-shirts into fashion must-haves. This does not mean all ‘Kate Moss for Topshop’ consumers want to sniff cocaine and marry Pete Doherty. It means they want to be viewed as Moss is: beautiful, reckless and indifferent.

**
Entertainers are increasingly held up as style icons because their character shines through their demeanour and their clothes in concerts, movies and interviews. Whether that character is genuine is irrelevant- what’s important is that it is on public display. Even today, oversized sunglasses, strings of pearls and black shift dresses are worn in the hope of exuding an ounce of Audrey Hepburn’s natural grace in Breakfast at Tiffanys.

It’s when you combine style icons with high fashion that the real exploitation begins. Canadian model Jessica Stam explained it best when asked by ‘Shop ‘til you Drop’ magazine to describe her job in one sentence, “I make clothes look good.”

Style is the main reason high street labels can afford to charge exorbitant amounts for sub-par designs. Style alone fuels the fashion industry because it is a marketable desire to own beauty that only a select few naturally possess.

Reality television celebrities have also jumped on the fashion bandwagon. Lauren Conrad, Laguna Beach alumni and star of her own spin-off series, The Hills, last year launched her online label “Shop Lauren Conrad”.

Conrad’s popularity among teenagers who empathised with her failed past relationships and longed for her fun-loving Californian lifestyle generated enough support to launch her first collection of ready-to-wear casual dresses as generic and uninspired as last season’s Primark range. Yet her website promises, “This Fall, the Lauren Conrad Collection will offer timeless pieces that are sophisticated and chic, to bring out the California girl in you!” in a bid to sell her fans a piece of herself.

Whether you love or hate the way style icons cash in on the fashion industry, they play an instrumental role in helping us determine who we are, who we want to be, and how to dress accordingly to show ourselves off to the outside world.

Statement style
For many, style takes on a much more literal process. Members of ‘emo’ and ‘goth’ subcultures wear heavy make-up and dark clothing that, while not always aesthetically pleasing, distinguishes them from other groups.

(Source: usuarios.multimania.es)

Sub-cultural fashion is by no means a new phenomenon. The punk movement that began with Vivienne Westwood and ended, arguably, with Green Day, was notorious for taking mundane objects such as safety pins and turning them into accessories to symbolise anarchy- the antithesis of the ordinary.

Style has voiced political statements and made a mockery of the status quo over the years, and has always used fashion as its canvass. Boys that grew their hair long and girls who wore mini skirts in the 1960s did so to rebel against the rigid attitudes of the previous decade. Peace signs were once considered taboo. The symbol, featured on colourful tie-dye shirts and badges became a universal silent protest against nuclear weapons and the Vietnam War in the 1960s and 70s.

Sociologist Eileen Barker conducted studies of Fundamentalist, Marxist and Agnostic groups, which showed a direct link between religious groups and particular patterns of dress as a subconscious display of solidarity.

“If jewellery is worn at a Fundamentalist meeting, it will be a small gold cross or unobtrusive pendant around the neck of a young girl, or perhaps, a small lapel brooch on an older woman…Agnostic jewellery is more expensive and could come from Bond Street,” writes Barker in ‘Dressed to Impress: Looking the Part’.

Our style makes statements about us all, even those of us who don’t know we are making them.

The London look
Style is influenced by the culture of its city. In Sydney, where the fashion industry is nowhere near as developed or distinct as the fashion capitals of the world- London, New York and Paris, style is suffocated by a narrow perception of what is ‘cool’. But in London, style is free from any such constraint, and what would elsewhere be viewed as strange, is, in this city, intriguing. Jessica Hogan wrote in Vogue’s Spring/Summer Catwalk report, “You know you’re in London when rock chic rules. It’s all about the bold statement: dramatic eyeliner and radical hairstyles are key to the ‘outsider’ ethos.”

London-born model Lily Donaldson is growing increasingly successful at portraying different facets of the London look (no Rimmel pun intended). “Lily epitomises the cool London girl. She has such beauty and energy; even when her hair or make-up is bonkers she always manages to create the perfect Vogue picture,” said photographer Lachlan Bailey after working with Donaldson on a photo shoot in Vogue’s February issue.

In short, London’s style follows Vidal’s advice: not giving a damn.

It was on a particularly gloomy London day, I discovered the true meaning of ‘style’. I was on the tube with a friend. We couldn’t help but turn to stare at a teenager’s sophisticated-preppy ensemble. I immediately made a mental snapshot of her mustard, three-quarter sleeved cardigan belted with a bright red ribbon, dark green A-line skirt that hung just over her knees, and her cream pointed heels. I imagined myself pinning my hair just so, as she did, half up, half down. I found myself thinking, I have just that shade of lipstick. I wonder if that would suit me.

In the moment it had taken for the double doors to welcome the new passenger on, I had somehow become once more a little girl stumbling around her parents’ bedroom in high heels ten times too big for her, playing dress ups in my mind- ridiculous and unashamed. I had processed that the girl-on-the-tube’s style epitomised a healthy mix of femininity and confidence I wanted for myself and so I made a list of the material items needed to achieve it.

My friend was nowhere near as impressed as I was. She whispered disdainfully, “Its such a shame that that girl is dressed so elegantly, but acts nothing like it”. Together we watched her sway, head bopping to the tune blasting out her iPod headphones, her perfectly manicured hands waving in the air and immaculate patent shoes jumping in the aisle.

Long after the girl had skipped off the tube with a huge grin on her face, her style stuck in my mind as perfect because just as Vidal said it should, it appeared genuine. To me she’d looked feminine, happy, and perfectly at home with herself. Hers was a style I would pay good money to possess.

*First fashion journalism "feature" article, wherein all the rules of what NOT to do at UTS did not apply. Editorialise? In-text/hanging quotes? Subheadings? Sure!

** From L-R: Kate Moss, source: thegirlrevolution.com; Audrey Hepburn in 'Breakfast at Tiffany's', source: The Fabulous Review

The ‘Imperfect’ Obama Union*

2008-03-27T08:18:00.000-07:00

By Jane Lee

In a recent speech, Barack Obama described his presidential candidacy as ‘imperfect’. The rapid momentum generated by his campaign in the current U.S. elections over the past year is best illustrated by countless variations of the same photograph splashed across newspapers and magazines around the world. It is of 46-year-old Obama, beaming and waving to hundreds of thousands of Americans at campaign rallies across the country, often beside one of the many celebrities who have publicly expressed their support for him- a long list which includes the likes of Oprah Winfrey, George Clooney, Matt Damon, Halle Berry and Sharon Stone.

Obama has had a relatively short political career compared to his opponents, fellow Democrat Hilary Clinton and Republican John McCain. Yet with a lead of 143 elected delegates over Clinton in the ongoing primary elections, he is a clear favourite in the race to become the next president of the United States of America.

Obama’s personal background is well documented. His mother was born in Kansas, his father, a Harvard graduate, in Kenya. Raised partly by his maternal grandparents in Hawaii, he also lived in Indonesia with his mother during his formative years and was the first African American president of the Harvard law review. Obama worked as a constitutional lawyer and a legal academic for a few years before being elected Illinois’ state senator in 2004. One of his most notable achievements while in public office includes creating a law that made the allocation of resources from state taxes accessible online.

The timing of Obama’s grand entrance into federal politics was ideal. As his presidential campaign arrived on the heels of the past mistakes of an increasingly unpopular Bush administration, his career has yet to be tarnished by sexual scandals or senatorial misconduct. “Mr Obama is the only major candidate who has been able to ride out his campaign as the guy who came from almost nowhere, thus unencumbered by the need to defend any old policies or past decisions,” wrote Danny Ayalon in the Jerusalem Post earlier this year.

If elected, he would be the first ever African American president, and as such, political commentators around the world argue that Obama’s candidacy creates a beacon of hope for (as his campaign slogan promises) ‘a change we can believe in’, particularly in response to international issues such as terrorism and climate change that became prominent during George W. Bush’s presidency.

“It is about identity: what face- literally- America presents to the world. The next president needs to bring this country out of its unusual gloom. To prove that America can be intelligent and thoughtful and compassionate. In short, to make America truly powerful again,” said Camilla Cavendish in Times Online.

Obama’s reputation as a composed and diplomatic orator indeed portrays the antithesis of George W. Bush, whose presidency will forever be characterised by September 11, the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq, and the culture of aggressive foreign policies that ensued. Where Bush’s reign was fuelled by America’s formidable might in the face of global threat, Obama claims he will champion the revival of a peaceful, open dialogue between world leaders.

“The United States is trapped by the Bush-Cheney approach to diplomacy that refuses to talk to leaders we don’t like. Not talking doesn’t make us look tough- it makes us look arrogant, it denies us opportunities to make progress, and it makes it harder for America to rally international support for our leadership,” says Obama’s Blueprint for Change in America. “On challenges ranging from terrorism to disease, nuclear weapons to climate change, we cannot make progress unless we can draw on strong international support.”

Many critics still view Obama as a two-dimensional poster boy for multiculturalism with limited substance as a serious candidate. “Obama has moulded himself into the male Oprah Winfrey, the crown prince of niceness, bravely denouncing divisiveness, condemning controversy, eulogising unity, and retelling his feel-good life story,” said Steve Sailer in the American Conservative.

Obama’s campaign promotes his bi-racial heritage as indisputable proof that he will better understand the cultural needs of both sides of the black-white racial divide still plaguing America today because it allows him reach out to a wider range of people on such issues with a great measure of credibility. His most recent speech, “A more perfect union”, was no exception.

Held in Philadelphia last week, it was made in response to footage that showed Obama’s pastor of 20 years, Jeremiah Wright, making ‘anti-American’ remarks. Wright had been filmed on various instances telling his congregation that they should sing “God damn America”, that the American government had created the AIDS virus as a way of killing African people, and essentially deserved the September 11 attacks as punishment for its past misdeeds against ethnic minorities.

The controversy that emerged marked the first real test to Obama’s campaign. It prompted the senator to seriously address the issue of race relations for the first time. Obama used his personal experiences with a mixed cultural background to encourage reconciliation. He explained the complex reasons for the bitterness belonging to both black and white people in America, rather than outrightly condemning Wright’s comments.

“I can no more disown him [Wright] than I can my white grandmother - a woman who helped raise me…a woman who loves me as much as she loves anything in this world, but a woman who once confessed her fear of black men who passed by her on the street, and who on more than one occasion has uttered racial or ethnic stereotypes that made me cringe,” he said.

Obama argued America should, in line with his own campaign, move beyond racial, religious and conservative-liberal divides that have coloured the country’s political landscape for centuries, to focus on resolutions to national problems.

“He [Obama]…demonstrated that he can use his formidable rhetorical powers to address difficult subjects rather than simply to rev up a sympathetic crowd,” wrote The Economist.

The speech opened up the floodgates for debate once considered taboo to enter in American society. “Finally we can talk about race without being afraid we are offending others,” said daytime talk-show The View co-host, Barbara Walters.

But Obama’s candidacy represents much more than a conscious or unconscious catalyst for social change. Gravely underestimated are the massive implications his uniquely bipartisan worldview would have for the future of international relations and global diplomacy.

Obama’s greatest responsibilities as President would be twofold; the first would be to determine the fate of America’s relationship with other world leaders. Cancelling a European tour earlier this year to focus on presidential contests in Iowa and New Hampshire, he has not yet met UK Prime Minister, Gordon Brown.

“Obama talks the language of free trade as eloquently as Brown, but walks the walk along the well-trodden path laid out for him by the trade unions…of the two, Obama's protectionism is the least strident. So Brown might be comfortable with him,” speculated the Hudson Institute’s Irwin Stelzer in the Telegraph.

“But it seems reasonable to guess that Brown, so policy-heavy and charisma-light, more Clinton than Obama, harbours suspicions of a young, handsome, charismatic politician long on charm and elevating rhetoric, but short on policy details,” he said.

Samantha Power, a member of Obama’s foreign policy team, told the Telegraph earlier this year that she believes his presidency would go far in reducing the anti-American sentiment that exists in Britain.

“Any British leader is harmed domestically in terms of public standing by association with President Bush, the reverse will happen with President Obama. Obama reminds people of the better angels of America,” she said.

Obama may have already established a good relationship with French President, Nicolas Sarkozy. When he was France’s interior minister, Sarkozy met Obama during his visit to Washington D.C in 2006, along with only two other American politicians- President Bush and John McCain.

In early 2007, Obama praised Sarkozy in an interview with Agence France-Presse, "He [Sarkozy] is a man of enormous energy and enormous talent. I was impressed with his willingness to look at the issues that France faces in a new ways, not bound by tradition and dogmas.”

Obama would secondlly need to decide what action the U.S. will take in response to international conflicts in countries such as Iran and Israel-Palestine, and human rights abuse in countries such as Sudan, which his predecessors have been unsuccessful in resolving.

His campaign spells out clear goals for the future- withdrawing American troops from Iraq within 16 months, assisting Iraqi refugees, reducing global poverty, ridding the world of nuclear weapons, and establishing separate and harmonious Israeli and Palestinian states. But Obama is still vague on how he will go about implementing strategies to achieve them.

“As far as Israel is concerned, Obama has yet to suggest specific measures he would enact regarding the Jewish State's Qualitative Military Edge that allows us to defend ourselves against our current and future enemies,” said former Israeli ambassador to the United States, Nefesh B'Nefesh, in the Jerusalem Post.

Obama proudly claims he is neither left nor right wing, but a man for the people. “I don’t want to pit Red America against Blue America, I want to be the President of the United States of America,” he said in Blueprint.

This poses a frightening prospect to interest groups seeking a more definitive stance, or at least guidance, on the new direction the world will take in the face of ongoing international crises.

“Given the increasingly tense security environment Israel is confronting on all sides, now is not the time for American leaders to shy away from such fundamental questions. The four years ahead are far too critical for global security to place the presidency of the United States in the hands of a leader whose campaign is leaving us with more questions than answers,” B’Nefesh said.

If elected, Obama is likely to take a softer, more cautious approach to international issues, using diplomacy, rather than military action, as a first resort where possible. On the threat Iran poses, Obama’s Blueprint for Change says his government would provide economic incentives to curb it’s nuclear program and support of terrorism, “Obama believes we have not exhausted our non-military options in confronting this threat; in many ways, we have yet to try them.”

The U.S. would then pose less of an immediate physical threat to a global community that have come to expect it from a government that single-handedly redefined the international legal phrase “pre-emptory attack”.

Obama’s domestic policies, though not as well publicised, are much more clearly defined in areas such as health care and education. Obama also outlines in his Blueprint for Change a number of laws aimed at increasing the transparency of presidential records and the accountability of lobbyists to the public. Though far less glamorous than their international counterparts, such policies still represent significant changes in American governance.

Even if he does not win the presidential nomination, Obama’s ‘imperfect’ candidacy has already changed the face of American politics. In Philadelphia, he admitted as much, “As so many generations have come to realise…that is where the perfection begins.”

*My first article for my International Journalism module. It was due the day I got back from my snowboarding long weekend. Considering I wrote this every spare second I got between snowboarding, hopping on and off a bus, a plane and two other trains on the way home, I think its pretty damn decent.

The quiet things that no one ever knows.

2008-03-18T14:20:00.000-07:00

1. My shower is tiny. It took me a while to work out how not to be swallowed by the white curtain that surrounds it, its that small.

2. I think I'm starting to develop English tendencies when I talk. No, no accent yet. Just an indignant lilt, a downward emphasis on certain words that permeates the British 'tone'. It's hard to describe. I also avoid abbreviations, preferring to speak in passive aggressive tones, e.g. "Did you not hear half of Westminster in the flat last night?" instead of "Didn't you hear half of Westminster in the flat last night?". I say "film" instead of "movie" increasingly, and use the word "surely" quite frequently.

3. I'm using my brother's old sim card, so to avoid confusion, I started putting "UK" before my new friends' names when entering them in my phone, which now means I have to scroll through the normal alphabet, and then re-scroll through over twenty UK entries to get anyone's contact out.

4. The 'x', as in 'kisses' is very commonly used as a punctuation mark in text messages among younger locals. More on that one later.

5. When the little green man at pedestrian crossing flashes, it means he's about to go red. That's a good one to know, especially if you're crossing the road by yourself for the first time in a foreign country.

6. Vivienne Westwood used to go to the University of Westminster.

Clue

2008-03-16T18:49:00.000-07:00

Last week was spent on 'Clue': a theatrical adaptation of both the boardgame Cluedo and the 80s movie that came from it. I had one line: "I am your singing telegram", sung (as you do) before I got shot. That's right. I got shot every night for four nights, and spent most of my time on stage as a corpse, trying hard not to laugh.

40 minutes on the tube either way, a weekend of dress rehearsals and an hour of waiting backstage for my cue, all for my 15 minutes of fame- literally. I was pretty sick last week, and it made the freezing trek a little less inticing each night. But I had a really good time doing it and met some very entertaining people along the way, so it was all worth it!

I was also pretty busy with interviews for Smoke radio. There was a 24 hour broadcast Friday through to Saturday which included regular updates from the final day of student union elections. I did a pre-recorded interview with a Harrow student rep candidate, and the manager of one of the Activities VP candidates. Check me, ahem, I mean 'it' out here. I also read the news on one of my friends' specialist shows at night. I then played him in an awesome game of pool at the uni bar and very VERY narrowly beat him. (It was down to 3 balls each, then we were neck and neck for the 8 ball, then he got it in but sunk the white ball too, thereby forfeiting the game. I still got it!)

I was supposed to sleep over in the computer labs with the presenters for the graveyard shift shows, where there were forts of sleeping bags built over piles of pizza boxes, but I was way too tired from the week's festivities, which included staying up till 5am waiting for half the uni population's loud drunken asses to leave my flat and stop pounding my already fierce headache with their shrill shrieks and verge-of-a-fight chatter (i.e. "You want some?" "Eric, no! Don't do it!" "What are you trying to SAY to me huh?" *chair crashes, people running, door slams*).

The next night I randomly had a piece of specialty confectionary for the first time (if you don't get it I'm not about to explain, so think hard) that, anti-climactically, just gave me a dry mouth, tingly feet, and made me fall asleep for about 14 hours straight. Which was probably just what I needed at the end of this week anyway.

P.S. If you're interested, you can now hear me on my regular hourly 'slot' on Smoke radio at www.smokeradio.co.uk Tuesday from 4-6am Sydney time (that's Monday 5-7pm London time). I read a news bulletin at the top of each hour. But apparently it stuffs up if more than 30 people are listening at once, which is why most of you didn't hear the last show I told you about.

Smoke Newspaper Features

2008-03-09T14:13:00.000-07:00

So if you're wondering if, since I've been in London, I've just become a major Eurotrashbag alcoholic, or if I've totally forgotten all my grand plans for becoming a great international journalist, a millionaire, and the owner of the whole universe by the age of 30, then let me ease your weary minds, friends. The answer to those questions is: kind of, and no, respectively. I will be using much of the second half of my trip for work experience and (hopefully) paid work and travel.

In the meantime, I'm currently the features editor of Westminster's fortnightly student newspaper. Circulation is in the thousands, as it goes out to all the various campuses of the university, but as for actual readership numbers? Well at the moment I can only really be sure that there are about three. That is, the three or so I see holding the latest Smoke newspaper, to whom I instantly yell out: "READ PAGE SIX! ITS THE BEST OF ALL OF THEM I PROMISE YOU!".

I secretly love it because I plan on editing my own magazine some day. As features editor I'm in charge of content and photos for the page, and in the last issue of the year, there are going to be a lot of contributors' pieces to edit. So, apart from layout (which the paper's senior editors handle), the role is almost exactly what I want to be doing in future, albeit on a much smaller scale.

For the first few issues, no one volunteered to contribute to my one-page section, so I resorted to writing all the articles myself, which was by no means an easy task, given I'm not familiar with anything I'm writing about, or where to get contacts for interviews. Also, in the first half of semester I wasn't doing any writing subjects, which was a little strange since I'm used to having at least one essay or article due every week. So I guess it's kept me from getting rusty in that department.
It's definitely forced me to be a little more confident and meet a few more people, and be really thorough in my research. Just today, a guy who, as it turns out, studies radio at Westminster, read my article on the competitiveness of London's radio industry, said it was "spot on", i.e. an accurate representation of the industry. So I must be doing something right.

It's been a fun, if stressful experience thus far! It's really helped me get into the frantic-run-from-interview-to-coffee-to-party-to-class schedule I'm used to. I liken it to preparing a Sunday roast singlehandedly. Its a bitch-long process to prepare it, and by the end of it you're not sure if all the ingredients will come together, but when they do, it looks awesome, right before everyone inhales it, totally unaware of all the hard work that's gone into it. But for some reason you still feel a quiet sense of self-satisfaction when the whole thing is over. Then again, I've never cooked a Sunday roast, so it's probably not anything like that at all.

Anyhoo. You can't really sit in on the writing process with me, but here are a few issues I whipped up earlier!
(click to enlarge each part of the article- haven't worked out how to get the whole thing up in one fell swoop, damn my 12-inch monitor).

Let me know what you think! (Seriously, do, because I'd like some proof that I'm not just blogging to nobody out there. I have about two people who email me on a regular basis from back home, and I'm starting to think no one's actually noticed I'm no longer in the country!)

Student Politics (Issue 22):

Smoke Radio Students (Issue 21):

Valentines day (Issue 20): and no, my original headline did NOT say that. The editors stuffed it up for me!

A little night's Musiq

2008-03-05T16:22:00.000-08:00

I'm hoping my previous post will act as a disclaimer for what I'm about to describe.
If you know me, you'll know that I'm a pretty excite-able person. Its all or nothing with me, I'm not one to hold back on my right to self expression.

After about two and a half hours of waiting for Musiq to strut on stage, I was getting pretty damn worked up. Jumping up and down, fidgeting, restless, the whole deal. But when he sang the first or second favourite of the night, "previouscats", I went ballistic. "Who knows the words to this next song?" Nuts, I tell you. He smiled at the cheering crowd, and must have wondered why he could still see this bobbing movement out of the corner of his eye- me, that is. Still going nuts even after the crowd had settled down. He tried to be polite, smiling and about to start singing, but couldn't help but chuckle out loud while pointing at me. There's always gotta be one psycho fan, right?

Later on, I can't at this moment remember what song he was singing, but he leaned down and for a moment it was like we were singing to each other. I was hooked. I knew then I'd been forever branded in his mind as the psycho fan of the night. My new name was only cemented when he walked along the stage shaking hands, including mine,and came back the same way to see my hand, outstretched, yet again. He paused, leaned down, took my hand in both of his and rubbed them as if to say: "Happy now? It's cute but enough already!"

After the concert, I planned to try to meet Musiq. Jazz Cafe is really small, and I've heard that its easy enough to meet and mingle with the singers after a gig there. My friends and I spoke briefly with the guitarist on stage first, thanking him for the show. He told us that while Musiq's a "great guy" he was particularly tired that night, hence his no-show-encore, and so he wasn't sure if he'd head straight home or still be around after the gig to meet with fans. I decided to take my chances.

Outside I spotted one of the two backup singers- there had been a girl and a guy, both awesomely talented. The girl was outside and we chatted for a bit about random things- how cute my bag was, how great the show was etc. She too wasn't sure if Musiq was still around but advised me to come to the show the next night and catch him on his way into the venue, at which point he'd still be alert and ready to sign autographs and whatnot.

As we said our goodbyes, someone who looked exactly like the male backup singer walked out of JazzCafe arm-in-arm with a girl. My friend said what I'd been thinking which, in my mind, confirmed that he was definitely one in the same backup singer. As he approached we beamed at him, willing him to come say hi. He made eye contact, but made no signs of slowing. That was cool, but since we'd already thanked two from the backup band, I figured it only fair to blurt out: "Itwasagreatshow!"
He replied, "Yeah, it was" with a puzzled expression, and didn't even break his stride. Rude.

Five minutes later, the actual backup singer came out. This time it was definitely him. How embarassing. He saw me smiling and came over to ask what I thought of the show, and after a little chitchat he returned to the girls he was almost cetainly trying to hook up with that night. I felt really stupid doing it, but I walked up to him and interrupted to ask whether he knew if Musiq had left yet. He asked me if I wanted to meet him, and I said "yes and possibly get an autograph?", to which he promptly took me to the stairs leading backstage.

Holy. Crap. No. Way.

The beefy security guard wouldn't let us in though, not even after two attempted pleas by Showtime (seriously, he told me that was his name later on). He shrugged and said "I tried, sorry!" I told him my name and said I'd come back the next night, and he said he'd remember me, and that if I came he'd definitely set it up. At the time, there was no question I'd travel the 40 mins from campus in the freezing cold to do this. Maybe Showtime wouldn't remember me. Maybe Musiq would be a diva and not pause to take a photo. Maybe he wouldn't go through the front door, and I'd miss his entrance completely. But whatever the case, I needed to let Musiq know I wasn't just a diehard groupie, but someone who'd honestly been moved by his work.

That didn't happen. I wonder how it might've turned out if I'd gone. I was writing an article way past deadline, and had planned to meet friends later that night. It just didn't seem worth it, really. But the gig definitely made my week. I fell asleep with a smile on my face and "Just friends" buzzing in my head.

I cannot think of a better way to end the day.

Wow.

2008-02-28T16:45:00.001-08:00

"It's Musiq...Soulchild..it feels good right here. It feels good right here."
- 'Future', Musiq

[Update: 3 March, 3am-ish]

Wow I really should be in bed right now. Caleb and Chris arrived in London today, and I went to see them all the way in Hammersmith, forgoing the first Smoke Radio hosted Happy Monday at the Undercroft this year...but that sentence means nothing to most of you, so I'll stop right there with the account of the day.

Excuse me if barely any of this post makes sense, I'm pretty damn tired right now. But for my loyal readers- all two of you- I would do anything! The fact that I haven't updated this thing properly in a really long time, must surely prove how much of a good time I'm having here. I haven't had much time to pause for thought in the last couple of weeks, let alone languish my hours away on the Internet.

A major highlight of the last week, of which there were many, was my first visit to London's iconic Jazz Cafe. for a reputedly over-priced Musiq Soulchild concert. A little background, friends. The first Musiq song I ever got into was "Just friends" from his second album "Aijuswanaseing". I played it over and over for the weeks, and possibly months leading up to my birthday. I never got sick of it, not once. It just got better every time I played it, took on a new meaning, fitted my every mood increasingly with each day. My brother got me his third album, "Juslisen" for my birthday. It could've been because he's awesome at picking out thoughtful gifts, and wanted to help me develop my Musiq Soulchild education. It could also have been because he was so sick of hearing the same song played 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, that this was the only way he could get me to play something different. But I like to think it was for the first reason.

And so, I was touched. Lucky for me, that album was also a classic. Every song on Juslisen is catchy, meaningful, mellow and just plain old wonderful. Over the years I've gotten obsessed with and overplayed many albums. But this is one of the few that I would listen to regularly well after the first-purchase euphoria has worn off, without needing to put it on my shelf for a few weeks to take a break from the all too familiar intros and interludes. His simple lyrics have taken on new meaning for me over time, as I relate more and more to the situations he describes. I can remember so many times when I've flung my room door open angrily, or stressed out, or just defeated from a really bad day, a helpless situation. Without fail, Musiq's soulful voice would slowly ebb through the room unintrusively while I read, studied, or just lay on my bed staring at the ceiling thinking about the hopelessness of it all.

Sometimes the lyrics would play on my mind, sometimes they'd make it all make a little more sense somehow. Sometimes I'd just nod to the beat, or fall asleep to the harmonies. Sometimes I'd just listen to him crooning that it'll be okay. And in some weird way, it was. Maybe it was certain songs on there that for one reason or another, had special meaning to me. Maybe it was just the fact my brother, who I wasn't very close to at the time, thought enough of me to realise that I liked Musiq- something no one else had noticed. But for whatever reason, let's just say that album is one of my favourites, and I've respected Musiq Soulchild for his refusal to buy into the cheesy-gimmick-dependant-RnB/too-smooth-sell-out commercial/try-too-hard-over-sexed industry so sadly infiltrating that genre today, ever since.

So you can imagine what seeing him live must've been like for me. I waited in line with a friend half an hour before the doors opened, and a few hours before Musiq was actually due to go on stage. It's a small intimate venue, and I made sure we marked out territory right on the edge of the stage in the front row from the get go. It sounds bad, but to illustrate how close I was, I was about eye-level with his crotch the whole night, and the wire from the microphone stand was in grave danger of whipping me in the face every time he tilted it downward for extra effect.

Unlike a lot of gigs I've been to, it never once got boring, or made me wonder what time it was. It took me with it, and just as soon as it had started it was over. The whole room moved with the music, strangers turning to smile at each other and sing the lyrics each knew just as well as the other. The backup singers thrusted and twisted to the beat, their faces in raptures despite it being their fourth show of the week.

The only criticism I'd have of the gig is the way he'd only ad lib, rather than sing out word for word, favourites such as "Just friends", "Halfcrazy" and "Previouscats", instead preferring to smile and hold the microphone out for us fans who knew every single word and trill. Unfortunately he was also too tired to come out for a previously rehearsed and officially scheduled 15 minute encore. The MC was surprised, and embarrasingly had to say "Oh...looks like he's not coming out again! I'll just play some records, folks" after making us chant traditional cheers to pump up the atmosphere and welcome him back on stage till our throats were sore and we were no longer in the mood to pretend that yelling louder would actually make Musiq come out again. You know stuff like: "When I say Musiq you say Soulchild, Musiq!" "Soulchild!" "Musiq!" "Soulchild!" etc....

There were the typical Jane-esque embarassing moments interspersed throughout the night (what great story /blogpost wouldn't have at least one, right?) But those will be described in a more coherent way, at a less ungodly hour. Stay reading!

Random things I've done this week

2008-02-10T12:51:00.000-08:00

1. Narrowly missed getting salmonella..or some other bacteria-related illness
I woke up one night, starving. I wasn't hungry or awake enough to bother getting out of bed to cook. So I reached up to the shelf above my desk to grab a mandarin from my stack of newly purchased fruit. Peeling it seemed a little harder a task than it should've been, so I turned on my desk light to investigate. Once my eyes adjusted to the light, this is what I saw:

Moral of the story: don't ever eat fruit in the dark.

2. Outdrank an Irishman...sort of, not really.
When I arrived at a pirate theme party on campus last week, I spotted Denis from pretty far away. Apart from the fact that the place was practically empty, he is about a million times taller than everyone else. Leaning against the bar (where we stayed for most of the night, ensuring we were head of the queue at all times), he seemed even more laid back than usual. I collected the pirate eyepatch I'd ask him to get me, broke it straight away while trying to put it on, and got handed another one, which I wore for most of the night. (Lucky he'd bought a six pack of those things. This process was repeated a number of times throughout the night.)

We sculled, or as is apparently more commonly said here, downed, some vodka red bulls. But where I chugged, Denis at best glugged it down as slowly as possible. I kept him in the corner of my eye and sped up- shit, he's going slow. Go, go go! I slammed my cup down ceremoniously, unable to get rid of my proud grin. When he finally was done, I announced, just to make it official in case he didn't notice: "I beat you! I just outdrank an Irishman!" Quite a feat! He's more than twice my size!

His head was still facing his now empty cup. He slowly lifted his head up a few seconds after I'd made my grand declaration, and in super-slow-mo, blinked once before saying, "You realise I had a bottle of vodka to myself before coming here." I don't know if it was coincidence or a direct result of what he said, but I realised at that point just how fast I'd shotted my drink, and started to feel that redbull a little more keenly than before, still searing through my chest and resting uncomfortably on top of the vodka in my stomach. "I think I'm gonna be sick," I responded nonchalantly, before running out to dry heave my dashed victory away.

3. Made a radio ad for Homebase (a store I didn't know existed until about a week ago)
-- for an assignment. It'll play on the radio show we have to produce for our music radio class, on www.smokeradio.co.uk/, this Thursday at 12-2pm (11pm-1am Sydney time). My voice will be in there somewhere too, either live for the news broadcasts or pre-recorded for a radio feature in the program, a specialist show called "A Kick up the 80s". Tune in!

4. Visited Hampstead Heath...amongst other 'cultural' sights:
I was feeling particularly tourist-eager one Saturday. It was crazy sunny. Which is pretty rare here. Usually if you get a patch of sunlight, you'd run to the spot where it concentrates to tilt your head and bask in its 5 seconds worth of glory. So when its a sunny day, you savour it. I'd used up all my available bum chum options and decided I would still head out and take advantage of the good day alone. Hampstead Heath is like a sanctuary of countryside in the middle of one of the biggest/busiest cities in the world. Loving couples stretch out on grass overlooking the city skyline, dark woods interspersed with meandering paths and well-constructed gardens, side by side with roaring traffic and a tubeline. Its nuts.

So I thought I'd get some nature into me and see where one of those little dirt paths would take me.

I had a glance at my mini London Lonely Planet on the way over, to see that there were a couple castle-like structures and galleries I could check out. I had a glance at the map on the side of the road, but thought i'd be a TRUE citizen of the world and explore for myself. How big could it be, right? What's an acre when I have the wind at my back and the sun shining on my head? I took the path that looked most windy, and found myself heading deeper and deeper into the woods. There were other walkers, like me, holding their camera in one hand and guidebook in the other. But not many. There were, however, a lot of lone men, hands in jacket pockets, looking solemnly yet furtively around them, heads down for the most part. What's going on...?

I could only find a garden that was closed for the day, and as it was getting dark i decided i should start heading for the road. I found myself just down the road from all the sights I was planning to see, and checked another roadside map to see which part I'd been walking in for the last half hour or so. Suddenly, something clicked. I got out my poor afore-hastily discarded guide, to read more carefully over the Hampstead Heath page:

"The West Heath is such a well-established gay cruising area that the police come to protect the men who spend their nights here."

Oh.

5. Narrowly avoided permanently staining my one pair of knee-high boots with an abnormally large puddle of vomit...
I was reading, walking along the platform of the tube station. The point is though, my boots are still okay. The end.

6. Watched five and a half episodes of Felicity straight:
After this post was first written, I actually watched about six more. I've come to realise that I don't have to be out and about all the time to be considered "making the most" of the exchange. Sometimes its equally as rewarding to have time to myself and sit and relate to some good love triangle drama while eating melted cheese on toast. In the end, its all the little things that make up the best days.