Marketing: Indooroopilly State High School

Indooroopilly State High School aims to instil sense of personal value and autonomy in its students. In our diverse community we strongly believe in knowing our students and being sensitive to their individual needs. By making “Open Communication” one of our values, we have created learning community that is constantly evolving and shaping itself to changes within the school, as well as in the outside world.

Each and every one of our students has the ability to learn and the right to do so in the best environment possible. Only in safe, mutually supportive school can this be achieved. Classroom activities foster healthy relationship between teacher and student to inspire mutual respect and learning. Creating self-governing environment enriches the learning experience beyond the curriculum.

The learning experience should go beyond the classroom into later life. We believe the evolution of our learning environment should always consider the global and future prospects of our students. Perhaps most of all we believe enjoyment and success are the key motivators to learning, and persistence and resilience are critical attributes. Rights and responsibilities carry equal weight, where the freedom to make choices and take responsibility for learning develops maturity and the desire to succeed. We welcome you as partner in this important enterprise.

Marketing: Lensworth Real Estate

Kylie and Adam Clapp celebrated their first wedding anniversary by toasting their future happiness in their first home, which is about to begin construction at Bellvista.

Kylie, 30, a public relations officer with Caloundra City Council and Adam, 30, a salesman at Dwyer’s Retravision in Caloundra, looked at Bellvista soon after getting married on March 24 last year. After selecting land at Bellvista they had to put plans on hold until building their own home was a more financially viable option.

Later, after taking part in a Lensworth Kawana Waters familiarisation tour with Caloundra City councillors and key staff, Kylie was impressed with what she saw at other Lensworth Kawana Waters display villages at Kawana Island and Creekside. “I saw the Bondi Beach Cottage and the Gabriel Poole designed Lensworth beach cottage which showed how well smaller blocks can work. Then I saw a couple of Glenwood Homes I liked at Creekside. “I went back with Adam and we found a Glenwood design we liked for a smaller block and were delighted to find there was a suitable 487m2 block with a 15 metre frontage.

“It all fell into place so smoothly. We were eligible for the first home owners grant and we’ve had a lot of support from the builder,’’ said Kylie. The young couple, who already love Caloundra’s excellent amenities and beaches, are looking forward to joining the Bellvista community where they already have friends, family and workmates living nearby. “We really like the area, it’s a nice community and neighbourhood and the lake area will be really nice for walks, riding bikes and having barbecues. After renting for years, it will be nice to have our own place,” she said.

Client Email: Infor

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Media Release: What Women Want Personal Training

Let’s face it. Fad dieting has become an epidemic. Negative body images are handed out like supermarket samples. Everything has become extreme: the fastest way to lose weight; the easiest way to get fit; the shortest path to a better you. These ‘solutions’ are everywhere and we know all about them. The problem is, they know nothing about you. This is where What Women Want Personal Training comes in.

The premise behind our training studio is simple: a health and fitness program tailored to each member’s needs, exclusively for women. Our all-girl team of trainers can personalise every aspect of your workout, from what you eat to how you set up your machines, so that you can achieve your goals the fastest and safest way possible.

Because What Women Want is an exclusive training studio and not a gym, you’ll never have to avoid peak times or queue for equipment. Plus with the encouragement and attention that personal training offers, you’ll always have the motivation you need to keep going!

What Women Want Personal Training has developed a prestigious reputation since its inception in 2003. In addition to being in the top six finalists of the Quest Business Achievers Award for fitness (the only personal training facility to do so), we also won the overall award for Employee Excellence. We’d like to think that it was strong customer focus and concentration on lasting results through fun exercises that set us apart.

Just remember, personal training isn’t solely the domain of rake thin girls in leotards. We cater for women of all ages and levels of fitness. Even if you’ve never trained a day in your life, we can offer a ground up solution to get whatever results you want- even if its one of those before/after photos to show your friends!

Check out What Women Want on the web at xxxx

Or call us on 07 xxxx xxxx

Big Brother Eviction Profile: Dino

The berating burrito gets booted

He’s competitive, self assured, hilarious, the oblivious point on a tottering love triangle and an unabashed straight talker. Dino may have offended as many hearts as he won over, but he’ll leave a Balkan sized hole in the house now he’s gone.

Known affectionately as “The Bosnian Burrito” by the other HMs, one thing is for sure: This dish was low on cheese and high on verbal salsa. Always popular with the boys and sometimes misunderstood by the girls, Dino became almost as famous for his competitive nature as his dry, sometimes twisted, sense of humour.

While his psych profile, described him as “laid back and private,” within the first week Dino was rubbing against some of the HMs the wrong way. An angry tirade from 2^nd week evictee Elise had his mother rallying to his defence. The female HMs weren’t helping either, labeling his farmyard games antics as more bullish than chicken-like.

While a rift may have broken out between Dino and the girls, he continued to form a strong relationship with Anna, Michael and John. While this group may have dwindled by Dino’s last week in the house, they were sure to stand up for him when the going got bitchy.

Dino’s close relationship with Michael paid off, with the insider’s three point deduction saving him from a possible eviction in week four. Their friendship wasn’t always one of mutual support however, with Dino making several shrewd guesses about the existence of an insider before many of the HMs had a clue.

At the end of the day, Dino was laid back to the core. So Michael’s revelation as the insider was treated with a grain of salt, even though Dino had been privy to as almost as many Reuben stories as David. It was only Michael’s parting shot on the toothbrush saga that revealed a new side to Dino: the bitchy one.

Usually with either Jamie or John in tow, Dino’s rants have envied Rob’s for their mix of insightfulness, humour and venom. While staying ever true to his mates Jamie and John, Dino became one of the few in the house to ever question the previously inscrutable characters of Katie and David.

Of course Dino’s manner might have been eased somewhat by his good looks, a factor that didn’t escape David’s attention, nor the gaze of a stunning blonde intruder by the name of Danielle. Before long a party pash that started as a dare was blossoming into one of the house’s most riveting relationships.

The problem was, Dino is by nature a private person, concentrating heavily on his own time in the house. This apparent lack of attention soon had Danielle looking for another sympathetic ear. So who better than Dino’s best mate John? The first love triangle of the year had been formed: a tale that would keep us glued to the screen, Danielle confused, John guilty, the rest of the HMs frustrated and poor Dino completely oblivious.

Is there a future for Dinielle outside the house? Will he make amends with Michael? Or Elise? No matter the outcome, this Bosnian Burrito has kept us wrapt.

DVD Review: Iron Maiden - Death on the Road Live Concert

Iron Maiden are like an eighties Ford. They have twice the power they need, have dated faster than milk in the sun and sell far more out of loyalty than innovation. But damned if they aren’t dependable. 20 years on from their first album there isn’t a bald pate atop their 6 craggy domes, Bruce Dickenson’s air raid siren voice still reaches all the same notes and Steve Harris still hasn’t tired of writing the same song over and over. Even after 18 albums. Coming on the heels of their 2003 “Dance of Death” album, Maiden slayed Dortmund Germany with seventeen slashes of their rock axe, and you can experience it on dedicated 5:1 or stereo disks. Be haunted as Bruce crones from a stage throne in a mask and cape. Gasp at the brutal multi tiered castle backdrop. But that’s not all! There’s even three hours of backstage and recording footage where the gents state quite confidently that they intend to keep making the exact same music the exact same way forever. And if that isn’t a reassuring thought in this crazy world, you’re a house DJ.

Interview: J.D. Samson of Le Tigre

The prospect of interviewing JD from Le Tigre was actually a daunting one. More than just the band’s keyboard player and sometime lyricist, she is an outspoken gay rights advocate and figurehead, respected DJ and performance artist and even a calendar star. But despite this wealth of activity to mine questions from, its hard to get away from one question. The moustache. What is it with the moustache? Obviously such a question is out of the question- it could be really offensive. But now I’m worried about avoiding the question so much I’m worried it will just slip out. Worriedly I flick open a few shots from her 2003 calendar shoot and there it is in big gothic black letters. Right across her chest. The word “Moustache”. There is no need to ask now. The moustache is cool.

Speaking of cool, JD seems amused by the bio’s description of her as one of “New York’s hottest underground DJs”. “You know what? I guess fun people come to my parties and that’s what makes it fun. I wouldn’t say I’m one of those crazy beat mixers or something. I’ve been asked to DJ since I joined Le Tigre and I just started having parties and having a good time with people. I think its just cool to create a space for people to have fun with other people in the community rather than having some sort of top notch superstar DJ” JD is in the country for the blink of an eye to lift up the final night of Brisbane’s annual Queer film festival, right after a screening of John Water’s latest piece of sleaze “A Dirty Shame”. She’s excited about the film and the visit for sure, but as an avid camper would probably like to take the visit a little slower.

“I put out a calendar in 2003 and everyone had been asking me to do another one. So we came up with the idea to go in search of a Lesbian Utopia. For most of us, it has been such a hard time in the gay and lesbian community to actually

out of their own little scene. And I was just thinking, is it because we all live in the city? Is it because we need to get out of the city?”

So JD, photographer Cass Bird and two other performance artists packed themselves in an RV and went on a tour of rural United States, shooting location on the way.

“I didn’t know what was gonna happen. I just wanted to be anonymous for a while, to just go into these experiences and just be kind of an anthropologist. Especially in the gay lesbian community and someone who has been in the magazines, it can be hard to get away from it all.”

Rather predictably, the group found Utopia “inside the RV with us”, but so far as finding spaces for the gay and lesbian community outside of the cities, JD judges the trip a success. “Although some of them just thought we were men” she adds.

This means adding to her previous success with “Dykes Can Dance”, a guerilla style dance group she formed with a friend to protest New York’s antiquated cabaret laws. Think Fatboy Slim’s “Praise You” video with Lesbians (and a little more artistry).

. “In New York there used to be a law that you couldn’t dance in clubs that didn’t have a cabaret licence. You could have music on but nobody could dance. There were signs saying no dancing all over and they mostly were policing that sort of thing in lesbian bars -mostly because they were wanting to move them out of where they were.”

JD was able to abandon that project after the law was finally changed, but DJing and Le Tigre aren’t her only musical ventures.

“I’ve had to cut short my trip to Australia because I’m going to be performing with Peaches playing keys and sequencers and we need to rehearse. She’s gonna be kind of a live band this time. I think we’re already scheduled to do the next Big Day Out.” A lot of Australia got their first taste of Le Tigre from the Big Day Out. The experience is part of why JD is so keen to come back.

“It was out of control. We had a really good time and made friends, and probably managed to push the boundaries of our ‘scene’. The Gold Coast was amazing, Sydney was great, individual shows were really fun. Actually a really big part of it was to see how many people came out to those shows.”

A whole bunch of those people will obviously be keen to hear what JD can bring to the mixing desks.

I always play ESG, Michael Jackson, Missy Elliot, a lot of Hip Hop. Lately I’m always playing this hip hop remix that Peaches did for called ‘stilettos’. And….” A small sigh comes down the line.

“Madonna”.

She sounds almost ashamed.

Album Review: Be Your Own Pet (Self Titled)

Firstly, it has to be said that people who find the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the Grates to be insults to music had best look elsewhere: all music contained therein can safely be grouped as “hyperenergetic shaky voiced vixen waif fronts fringey wall of guitar noise”. However fans and even those who are cheerfully indifferent may want to give these guys a half a listen. There’s fifteen tracks of condensed “fuck you” on the disk that may not charge forward in a unified burst, but explodes all over the room like indoor fireworks. Best lyric: “Have fun, and be safe with it. Just kidding, fuck shit up!”.

Historical Fiction: Tyrants and Vikings

Writing is one of those things that can easily be put on the back burner. “Everyone has at least one good book inside them” a known devourer of books once said, and it’s a comforting thought that anyone at any age someone can pull up a keyboard and just let loose. Even better than that; arthritis aside, no prospective author has any significant physical advantages over the other. It’s a level playing field, with imagination the only boundary.

Well, that’s unless you want to become a successful historical fiction writer of course. To make the top of that pile, like the voluminously named Valerio Massimo Manfredi, you’d better be listing more than “history teacher” in your CV. The scowling silver haired author not only lists “internationally known history professor” in his accomplishments, but “explorer”, “journalist”, “archeologist”, “screenwriter” and, with his Alexander the Great Trilogy, “best selling fiction author”. With sales in excess of 200,000 he has been credited with ushering in a new era of historical fiction not seen since the 1960s with authors like Mary Renault.

In his latest novel “Tyrant”, Manfredi attempts to shed some light on Dionysius of Syracuse and his life of conquest, no doubt attempting to reveal a character at least as complex as Alexander. (And hopefully selling a few units on the way) Long dismissed as a one dimensional conquerer, “Tyrant” is an attempt to put a real person behind the carnage. A lover of art, a great innovator and an unfaltering nationalist, Dionysius’ character is a study of the relentless pursuit of vengeance and the corruption of absolute power.

So who would have the credentials to set a challenge to this undisputed champion of his genre? What battle scarred Indiana Jones of the written word would dare slap Manfredi in the face with a typewriter by way of a challenge?

Enter a man who has been called “One of the world’s greatest living explorers”: dapper Englishman Tim Severin. Following a cross continent journey by motorcycle from china to Venice as a student, Severin gained considerable fame through his historical voyage accounts, with the added twist of recreating them himself. This has seen him cross the Steppes of Mongolia on horseback, the pacific in a bamboo raft, and in a useful bit of research for his debut novel, the Atlantic in a leather curragh boat.

In a style similar to Manfredi’s, Severin has attempted to take the bones of a historical character and make them flesh, rounding out the true accounts with a dash of the highly likely and a pinch of pure speculation. “Viking: Odinn’s child” is the first part of a trilogy concerning the life of Thorgils Leiffson, a Norse adventurer and story teller. Abandoned at an early age by his mother, Thorgils defies the increasing influence of “The White Christ” and seeks to emulate his favourite god, Odinn the wanderer. Gifted with the power of second sight, Thorgils finds himself swept from Greenland to Iceland, Finland and Ireland, experiencing everything from the bloodiest of massacres to the strictest formalities of the Irish high court.

Severin began his writing career by taking legends and discovering the bits of truth that form their skeleton. It’s a formula that he has managed to utilize in his first work of fiction also, as readers are treated to a richly detailed account of Norse culture and everyday life, especially concerning the social turmoil as Christianity becomes the dominant religion in western Europe.

“Viking- Odinn’s Child” begins its tale in the year 999. Severin has taken most of his factual accounts from “The Icelandic Sagas”, a history which among other things gives account of Thorgils’ real life grandfather Erik the Red. Therefore, while most of the events that take place in Thorgil’s life are presumably true, the details concerning the character of Thorgils himself are all Severin, which in some ways could be the downfall of the novel.

The reason for this probably lies in Severin’s characteristic style of not putting much of himself in his books. In his previous world of travel writing this probably had the sole effect of costing him a little bit of unwanted fame or notoriety, but in “Odinn’s child” it is more of a setback. Despite Severin’s obvious gift for vividly detailed characters, like the financially obsessed Abbott Aidan and the berserker aunt Freydis, there is little emotional response at all from Thorgils himself. Even as he becomes the doomed standard bearer of a slaughtered army, resulting in his own slavery, Thorgils remains unbelievably upbeat and unaffected. Whether or not it was the intention of Severin to literally depict his character as “human flotsam” (he uses this description at one point, to be fair) Thorgils does come across as more a transparent window to the action in the novel than a real flesh and blood character.

Quite the opposite is true of Manfredi’s Dionysius. The simple notions of righteous vengeance that drive Dionysius early on are soon more complex tales of corruption, as his obsession over his slain wife and his paranoia-plagued dictatorship cause even his most loyal companions to doubt him. The performances of his mediocre plays and poetry during the height of his rein paint a portrait of an insecure man too far gone in the eyes of his subjects for redemption.

It’s too bad that Manfredi can’t seem to spread some of his depth to some of his supporting cast, who verge on cookie cutter in their predictability. While it is perhaps understandable for the man who portrayed Alexander the Great as a resolutely heterosexual ladykiller to keep his women beautiful and eager and his men as staunch and single minded, you can’t help but feel there are a lot of unexplored avenues here.

To be fair, Manfredi isn’t writing another trilogy and has to account for a lot of history in a short time. Given the subject’s tendency to long windedness, this can’t be easy. Nevertheless, there are occasional jarring jumps of several years following passages where single days are described in great detail, which is unfortunate given Manfredi’s skill for almost poetic sections of description.

There is also cause to wonder why, despite several other plot serving concessions of historical accuracy, Manfredi still saw it fit to get rid of his chief baddie Hannibal and slot in his successor Himilco without so much as a page of backstory. Yes, Manfredi does manages to keep things moving at a cracking pace, but his juggling of plot and history are at times a little hard to understand.

Despite all this it would seem that Severin will have his work cut out rivaling Manfredi for the history fiction crown. Without presuming too much about reader’s tastes, it seems likely that readers will prefer the “pulp history” of Manfredi with its sex and bloodshed to Severin’s considered and lively tale of adventure. You are likely to learn a lot more reading Severin, but if learning is your concern perhaps the history books are a more useful point of call. There may be pace issues with both books, but Manfredi seems to come out the winner on that front also. Then again, it could just come down to whether you think Vikings are cooler than Ancient Greeks or not. Who knows?

Banned by James Cockington

At dinner with a group of friends one evening, a 27 year old man gives his 23 year old female friend a massage. Unbeknownst to her, his penis is hanging outside of his trousers and frequently touches her hair. When the ratings for the television show on which this act occurred are made public, they estimate around 3,000 children between the ages of 5 and 12 were watching at the time.

Australia hadn’t heard from the Wowsers in mainstream media for a while. A tight tank top advertising Bourbon failed to generate anywhere near the commotion that leather shoes and a deep fried snack had in previous years. Before this particular Big Brother episode it seemed, at least for a while, that Australia’s moral descent into the fiery abyss had at least slowed, if not paused entirely. But if that young man’s errant penis showed us anything, it was that the Wowsers are forever teetering on the edge of retribution, and that all they needed was the right sort of push.

Exactly what sort of push that was needed, according to James Cockington in his latest novel “Banned”, has changed rather drastically. It was minors watching full frontal nudity in 2005, but 150 years earlier in Sydney a grown man catching a mere glimpse of ankle was considered equally horrific. Taking us through to a recent tangle over parents rights to photograph their own children at school events, Cockington presents a series of vignettes illustrating the ascent (or is it decline) of just what society deems obscene.

It’s all treated in a pretty light manner, so don’t expect to find out too much about Cockington’s own views on the topic. His decision to focus on some of the more comical cases in recent history, such as the pre-1940 illegality of visible male nipples, does suggest general bemusement. But what about a serious discussion on the topics at hand?

Artistic freedom, at least, gets a slightly more serious treatment. Cockington was a moderately successful musician before turning to the pen, and has written extensively on music and poetry. Obscenity is for the most part all about the visuals, so it makes perfect sense to focus on a visual artist.

“Banned” is, at least for the early part, loosely threaded by the story of Norman Lindsay. Beginning with an account of Lindsay’s first viewing of Solomon J Solomon’s “Ajax and Cassandra”, Lindsay then pops up frequently throughout the vignettes. After all he is “…one of the elite to have been banned for both the drawn and the written word”. Of course, Cockington is careful to note that such notoriety was an inevitable source of popularity: a fact Lindsay was quite aware of.

Perhaps in the interests of objectivity most of the other sections concerning the arts are weighed strongly in legal accounts and police statements. Luckily these sections are fairly contained, because most of the joy of “Banned” comes from the sheer ridiculousness of it all. The cheesy 1930s advertisements for cheeky “ring back” men’s swimming costumes (illustrations provided) and the descriptions of Lola Montes’ “Spider Dance” that revealed a scandalous glance of her “allegedly shapely ankles and calves” are where its at. The shocked accounts of a society dragged into the gutter by “Bodgies and Widgies” (An Australian equivalent of American ‘Rockers’) and the double-decade long battle for the bikini are by far the most resonating. The stipulation that all naked bosoms on stage must remain stationary in 1952 one of the most bizarre.

These events are only loosely connected however, and the book doesn’t really flow so well as a result. Sure, there are some enduring characters: the irrepressible Aub Laidlaw, chief “moral enforcer” of Bondi Beach for 33 years. The surprisingly conservative Patricia Niland who was made a legal scapegoat for wearing a bikini in 1945. Even Graham Kennedy’s televised (though heavily cut) war against censorship has its own chapter.

Its just a pity the sections are just that. Cockington has done a fantastic job on research: the illustrations alone do a great job of putting you in the moment. If the moments were more than just that, more than just a series of vignettes, we’d have a serious read on our hands. Instead what we have is a very entertaining and occasionally illuminating potted history. Even the wowsers might approve.

Star by Pamela Anderson

The appeal of Pamela Anderson is a thing of balance. This balance refers not only to skeletal matters, but to her market appeal. Yes, she made her first waves as a model for Playboy- but Playboy was always considered a tasteful publication with the likes of Larry Flynt around. She became an international star playing a flotation-device fitted lifeguard in a costume that didn’t so much leave something to the imagination as it grabbed it by the collar and screamed “Can you guess what’s under here!?”, that’s true. But “Baywatch” was a show with good wholesome family values. Risque, but never offensive. Her wedding night video may have clocked up downloads in the millions, but hey- it was her wedding night, and they stole the tape, right?

Therefore when Pamela and her ghost writer Eric Shaw Quinn took it upon themselves to write an account of Pamela’s rise to stardom, sex, drugs and pajama-clad magazine publishers included, a couple of easy punches have been pulled. For the sake of balance.

For starters, names have been changed. Pamela Anderson becomes Star Wood Leigh, a late bloomer and a doe eyed charmer who inadvertently finds herself on the cover of “Mann” magazine when she agrees to help a friend with her makeup on a shoot. The pipe smoking head of Mann magazine, Marsten Mann, bears a suprising resemblance to a Hugh Hefner, and the names don’t stop there. David Hasselhoff becomes “Foster Streithope” and drummer ex-husband Tommy Lee becomes “Jimi Deed”. As for the shows that brought Pam to our screens,“Home Improvement” becomes “Hammer Time” and “Lifeguards Inc” is substituted for “Baywatch”.

That Baywatch balance of smut and good old American values has also formed the basis for “Star”. From the cheesy opening sequence in Miami which has Star singing Journey’s “Don’t stop Believin’” from her beat up Impala to her continued wide eyed innocence as she descends into Hollywood, that girl next door grip is maintained. Tellingly her relationship with Tommy Lee has been all but left out of the book: But perhaps that’s because there’s just not much about the subject the world doesn’t already know.

The net result teeters between a raunchy account of Pamela’s life and loves and pure fiction. Was Tony Danza really “faster than a speeding bullet”? Did Brett Michaels really entertain Bacchanalian orgies in his hotel room? To Pamela’s credit, she has clearly realized that thanks to the fictionalisation of her life through tabloids she can get away with just about anything.

Perhaps the most amazing thing about “Star” is that despite Anderson’s character sleeping with virtually every male character in the book, including many of the producers that had no small hand in bringing about her success, Anderson still manages to come across unaffected, uncalculating and just so god darn shocked at how crazy everything turned out. Is “Star” a literal lesson in PR perhaps?

Working Class Zero by Rob Payne

Despite the unavoidable association with the United States Canadians suffer, most people would admit that they at least carry a reputation for being more sensitive and less insular than their southern counterparts. However with an artistic community whose more well known contributors include Bryan Adams, Celine Dion and William Shatner the casual observer may conclude that for all its great qualities Canada’s real strength seems to be in turning out an exceptional standard of middle of the road art. Add to that the unfortunate moniker Canadian writers must bear- “Can Lit”- and rising talent Rob Payne seems to have his work cut out to impress. Therefore a light comedy on the banalities of office life might not seem such a great foot to start off on then, would it?

Working class zero is the second book about Payne’s character Jay Thompson, previously in “Live by request” a 26 year old bartender looking to make it in the music business. In “Working class zero” he’s now a 30 year old insurance company employee, his music dreams are over and he is in an unfulfilling relationship with Jan, his bass player/love interest from the first book. The chief dilemma of Working class zero is Jay’s promotion to the management of a call centre, which requires him to oversee a room full of temp staff, whilst still retaining a shred of his former rebelliousness. Along the way Jay’s father’s colon will get scoped, he will eat Kentucky fried tofu and get a job impersonating John Denver.

Citing his time editing Quarry magazine and editing two collections of Canadian fiction as credentials, Payne managed to enrage the Can lit circles by stating they were only capable of churning middle of the road historical fiction. Offering his own “urban contemporary prose” as an alternative, Payne cites the work of Australian authors such as John Birmingham as an influence and has been enthusiastically compared with such luminaries as Roddy Doyle and Nick Hornby- however it is to be seen how well he fits these shoes after his second novel in as many years.

Style wise the comparisons are obvious- simple 1^st person writing with a bit of a screenplay style and plenty of internal monologues and wry observations interspersed with tennis volley conversations. Not to mention a lead character suffering a crisis brought on by the absurdities of modern life. Other equally obvious comparisons can be made with Mike Judge’s 1999 film “Office Space” and David Fincher’s film of the same year “Fight Club”.

The most obvious homage of all is of course to “Fight Club”. Numerous quotes are lifting straight from the movie voice-over “This is your life and its ending one day at a time” compared with Payne’s “My life is ending one subway token at a time”. There are numerous references to the films cast including Brad Pitt and Helena Bonham Carter, and Thompson’s sagely best friend is even called Tyler. Payne has at least taken one good cue from the film- ridiculing the absurdities of office terms and politics. Heard of “potential after-run premium tasking”? That’s overtime. “Implement Cargo Space”? That’s your pen drawer. These terms and characters like the “outwardly friendly woman with a heart of poison” that is Hay’s supervisor Marge will inspire a chill of recognition to most office workers.

The problem is, these things aside there just isn’t that much going on. Hornby’s “High Fidelity” had a couple breaking up, sleeping with other people, a death; the best “Working class Zero” can manage is an almost-drunken fumble with a junior temp, “Did we lock lips or did I have an alcohol fuelled lust dream?”; a colon cancer scare; ‘”I might have the cancer”, Dad says

“I might have the bruschetta”, Don says’; and a rather unceremonious firing.

While Doyle and Hornby manage to offer insights with his observations or at least provide a breeding ground for them, the best Jay Thompson can offer is "Our collars might be white, but our outlooks are grey and our paycheques are most definitely lacking in green."

While “Working Class Zero” is a great light read, the lack of real evolution by the characters and lack of insight can leave the reader wondering why they bothered in the first place. As Jay notes to himself near the end of the book "Life proceeds at its mundane pace. As usual, I've made no significant changes. But I'm thinking about it."

London Bridges by James Patterson

Any avid reader knows any time you truck into your local bookstore and spy that telltale mixture of explosions and nursery rhymes on a hardcover, Alex Cross is back. At this point, following two successful movies about the character starring Morgan Freeman, it could be a book about Cross’s weekend gardening tips and still sell a hundred thousand copies. Is James Patterson’s latest, “London Bridges” going to be an exception?

Following up a successful series in true Hollywood fashion, Patterson has chosen a much bigger scope for his character this time around. Now an FBI agent, Cross’ concerns are now the affairs of the whole country, particularly with the war on terror. So when he is called off vacation to investigate the reappearance of his arch enemy, the Weasel, it is not a simple case of murder that is under investigation, but the annihilation of an entire town.

The figure apparently behind these terrorist attacks is known only as the Wolf, for whom the FBI’s massive database holds no clues, and whose henchmen only seem to make a post mortem appearance in investigations. This time around, not only does Cross have to deal with the killers and his always-on-the-brink-of-collapse family life, but with the “process obsessed Federal Government and its completely bizarre way of doing things”.

Although the sheer scope of the novel, switching locations from the Nevada desert to Washington, Paris and London effortlessly, while part of its charm, is in some ways its downfall. Now that Cross is just one man in a chain, the drive behind the story is out of his hands, and placed into that of the FBI men in charge, and of course the Wolf himself. Large passages of the book simply concern Alex blindly traveling from location to location, wincing in anticipation of the next attack. Many of the clues and inroads he does find are by pure chance. This in some ways robs the books conclusion of its satisfaction, helped in no way by the numerous ‘false’ endings.

A big part of Patterson’s skill in thriller writing is keeping his subjects contemporary and believable, a skill that he applies both to his incidental detail and the personalities of his characters. Patterson even hints at current frustration with the US and British policies of “no negotiation” with terrorists, portraying both governments as insensitive even when thousands of lives are at stake. Patterson however spares no sensitivity when dealing with his lead character, who has grown into a far more weary, family centered man. Cross is no longer a lone pillar of strength, relying heavily on his grandmother and children for the motivation to press on. We can identify with his feelings of helplessness, of being under another’s control. It is this human centre that carries this often sprawling tale above its contemporaries.

Graffiti Art by Nicholas Ganz

“Graffiti World”, the new book by Nicholas Ganz, is one of those inevitable publications. Documenting what can only be described as a global trend, Ganz not only reaffirms graffiti in the eyes of its followers, but has a good swing at its detractors. But why has a book like this been so long in the making? Well, for starters, those of you who see the term “Graffiti Art” as an oxymoron in the gravest sense may have had something to do with it.

There’s two major arguments for Graffiti not being included under the heading “Art”. The first is obviously because it’s a crime. The second is that it is essentially graphic design- not hugely different from a logo or an advertisement. So while those that agree with the former figure out whether or not Modernism during Nazi Germany is not art for the same reason, Ganz sets out to roundly convince us that graphic design is not even the beginning of Graffiti culture.

As he points out, many of the artists included in the book deliberately distance themselves from the word “Graffiti”. By tradition, the word Graffiti can be applied to everything from the political statements that dissidents would scratch into stone walls in ancient Greece to humorous sketches of the human anatomy on toilet walls. An illustrious history indeed. Those who choose prefer the terms “Aerosol art” or “Post Graffiti” or even street art don’t shy away from the term because of its association with some of the more visually unappealing forms of graffiti.

Known usually as “tags”, written in marker pen or spraypaint, you can find this sort of graffiti just about any bare wall in a given city. Although the taggers themselves originally referred to the practice as “writing”, it is this practice which led newspapers to assign the term “Graffiti”. It’s the stigma related to this term, where it can often be demonized as much as drug abuse and theft that has led to this dissociation.

Ganz’s decision to stick with the outsider’s term “graffiti art” has the dual purpose of keeping us unenlightened familiar with the subject, and blanketing a practice that in actuality has gone far past aerosols. Stencils, paper cut outs, oil based chalk and marker pen, mosaic, wooden and plastic carving as well as traditional oil and acrylic brushing are all tools of the modern graffiti artist. The pieces that appear in the book are not limited to walls and the side of trains either. From canvas to cliff face, to empty cans to a painted frame snuck into the Louvre, it’s arguable that no single visual art has found so many ways into the public conscience.

Exhaustively documenting every style from the tiniest of symbols to ten storey high scaffold painted murals, Ganz presents Graffiti as at worst a little piece of expression in a dull urban landscape. As if an aspiring composer snuck into your house in the night and replaced your microwave beep with an original composition. At best, Graffiti appears as something of lasting significance, to be studied and dissected like any gallery piece.

But it’s still just a bunch of fools writing their names on everything isn’t it? Well, yes and no. You have to go back to tagging’s hip hop roots to really grasp the significance of the writing. The bragging and challenging of rivals in hip hop are reflected in the straight assertion of a tag. The use of a spray can and the use of public space as canvas reflect the process of rhyming over another artist’s music. But more importantly both forms are a protest against oppression, a reclaiming of public space. Even more so, it is art because it is engaged in for its own sake. As many artists state in the book, they write on compulsion. The signatures are drawn so impossibly complex and riddled with pictures within pictures that they become almost impossible to read. It takes a well trained eye to recognize the meanings and homages reflected in the lettering style and construction. And then there’s that often repeated quote about fleeting beauty- each piece is as temporary as the next council clean up.

Having said that, “Graffiti World” is not a book that plods around too much about cause, effect or cultural difference. As if to make a point of this exclusion, Ganz has deliberately ordered the artists alphabetically by continent, rather than country or even sex. Listing most of the artists by their writing name has the effect of further blurring these distinctions. That’s not to say these factors are not touched upon, its merely that the broad scope of the book leaves little room for in depth discussion.

But even with these loose groupings, it is possible to pick trends as you read through. New York is where Graffiti Art is recognized as beginning, therefore no where else are you likely to find such traditional letter writing rubbing shoulders with those at the cutting edge. Canada’s artists often have to paint in oil based chalk due to the low temperatures. In the poorer areas of South America, artists will create simple patchworks around each others pieces as they are unable to afford the paint for the whole area. Australia itself does not go unrecognized- in fact local artists like Atome have achieved worldwide status to a point where they can release books of their own work. Looking at even documents the fledgling scenes in Eastern Europe like Belarus and the Ukraine, spawned by the global spread of hip hop music.

As Graffiti art has spread its influence away from the USA, as have current styles spread away from traditional lettering. Artists like Banksy, Buff Monster and Thomas Baumgärtel have gained recognition for their iconic pictures rather than their lettering. Others like Dzine deal solely in abstract patterns and colours. Then of course you have artists like El Kitsch Tasso, whose style is almost photorealistic. Artists like Tasso represent the curious back and forth between Graffiti Art and Commerciality. Because his portraits are so highly detailed and time consuming, almost all of his work is legit and of a commissioned nature. But like any other artist, he learned his skills in the illegal world of street graffiti. Even though such murals are often commissioned to deter other taggers, without those taggers they would never come to exist.

High art culture has had a similar relationship with Street Graffiti. While in some circles Graffiti art has penetrated the Gallery, and there are some artists who have foregone street art to work solely in this format, there will always be those who believe it has a place in neither. If nothing else, such debates will always keep the innovators pushing for new ideas and the traditionalists, well, traditional.

Graffiti culture has now reached that curious level where its mass appeal and marketability has been recognized and taken advantage of. But even as corporations like Nike take advantage of its fringe appeal in advertising, Graffiti will always have that anti authoritarian power to annoy and spark debate. As “Graffiti World” shows, its roots now run deep in the global soil, and those languishing in community service had best not put away their paint rollers just yet.

Women, humor and the lack of it in literature.

"Nothing spoils a romance so much as a sense of humor in the woman--or the want of it in a man."

If Oscar Wilde was put in the improbable situation of having to explain that remark in the present day, he could easily give that old, "Harsh Victorian upbringing" chestnut to keep the cries of misogyny at bay. But would he need it? The problem is, even with the passage of so many years, one simple truth seems to live on from this quote: Women just aren’t seen to be as funny as Men.

Now, some may see that as a rather general statement which in the interest of objectivity should be qualified. Firstly, in no way does this statement apply to that general “x-factor” of funniness. That indescribable combination of factors that can keep a party enthralled for hours through sheer timing, charisma and god-knows-what-else is, for purposes of this argument, doled out equally to both restrooms. Secondly, that statement isn’t a mathematical, "was that a guffaw or a titter?" critical comparison of the most popular 5 comics of both sexes. In fact, lets just assume, comedy being the subjective thing that it is, that all ten of that group are just as funny as each other. Besides, given time and an extensive bibliography, that statement could probably be argued convincingly either way.

But why is it that whenever a female comedian wanders on stage there is that inevitable cringe? That cynical expectation of yet another joke about PMS or menopause? Why is it that before that poor girl has even uttered a word the body tenses in expectation of her abject failure to amuse? There are scores of funny women out there. There are scores of incredibly successful funny women out there. Women who have managed to climb their way through an often misogynistic and almost certainly archaic business to have their own shows, lead movie roles, host the Oscars. But there is no female equivalent of Robin Williams. No equivalent of Jim Carrey. What about the world of writing? Again, there is no equivalent of Douglas Adams, or Bill Bryson or even Terry Pratchett. Is this gulf purely due to the bureaucratic setbacks of male dominated industries? Probably not.

There is an idea that Humour that falls outside the category of self-deprecating is basically laughing at the pratfalls of others. While we’re being basic about things lets accept that laughing at other’s misfortune is basically cruel. Whereas the female sex is quite famous for not being cruel. The nurturers, the life givers: it is in a woman’s nature to protect those less fortunate. Surely under these circumstances its harder to separate the sheer cruelty inherent in observational humour with its incongruency. Forget the misfortune, laugh at the sheer nonsense of it all. Guys can do it, they’ve been told to suck it in and soldier on all their lives. This is the same reason why they circle city blocks until they find a main road rather than ask directions. But that female empathy: it makes painful situations take on a new light. It also makes taking the piss out of one’s self that much easier than a bitter tirade on external forces. And it makes the female audience that much more receptive to it as well.

Then of course there’s the sex appeal of humour. There’s a good reason that at the top of every Cleo’s top ten most desirable traits in a partner the women always list “ability to make me laugh” and the men list “her sense of humour”. An attractive man who is funny has two things going for him in a woman’s eyes, but when an attractive woman cracks a joke the guys aren’t sure whether to laugh or feel threatened. Sure, this makes it a little easier for those women who are more quirky or just plain gay to get by. But why have these expectations filtered down to that last media outpost in an image obsessed world- that of the novelist?

After all, the super popular women’s novels that propel themselves into that ultimate stage of public consciousness- the Hollywood adaptation- are usually just an extension of this self deprecating tampon humour that infuriates those who seek to advance the cause. “Bridget Jones’s Diary” and “First Wives Club” were both big screen extensions of this humour. “Sex and the City”, despite praises for its ground breaking honesty is really just an uncensored, small screen step in the same direction. What is with all the self analysis? Can’t female writers step away from this oft trodden territory and tell the world something about itself it doesn’t already know? Or are they doing it already and it’s just not selling? One thing is for sure, the sore boobs type humour does sell a tonne.

Take the latest novel from Britain’s “Mother of Romantic Comedy” Wendy Holden for example. Drawing her inspiration from her own hectic life, Wendy has written several bestsellers about young women’s romantic adventures in London. Quite fittingly as she has become a mother herself, her focus has shifted to parenting. The rather predictable plot about two unlikely couples that meet at an antenatal class is really just the base for Holden’s wry observations of the trials and triumphs of child rearing, gorey details and all. And despite Holden’s enthusiastic reports online of how parenting has shifted her focus into a far less selfish and more empathetic style of writing, she’s really just written the same book over again. Even with its vainglorious male co-lead, this is unashamedly chick-lit.

Now lets take another comedy novel first is a debut novel by media satirist Daniel Price, entitled “Slick”. The story of a self proclaimed ‘media assassin’, “Slick” is a tightly researched and written satire on mainstream media manipulation. Despite its anti corporate themes, “Slick” is at its core observational humour. While viewed from the eyes of an overtly suspicious and cynical man, the funny parts are mostly universal in appeal. The flaws present in the main character are emotional detachment and cynicism, rather than thighs that have a surface not unlike orange peel.

There is one concession to make here however- to truly serve up a proper market equivalent to “The Wives of Bath” it would be far more suitable to talk about the latest espionage thriller from Clancy or Patterson. A comparison such as that would be far more likely to yield similar results on the fields of pandering and predictability. That is not in doubt. But quality of comedy is what is being compared here, and regardless of what markets are being aimed at by either example, there is a definite gulf. The goal is intelligent, relevant humour that serves to both relieve and enlighten the human conscience. And unfortunately guys just seem to be getting there faster.

There is hope, however. Such as the suggestion that the way that women’s comedy writing is judged is flawed from the outset. That too much time spent analyzing the patterns of male comedy has resulted in us simply reading things the wrong way. Case in point: it took scholars until this century to figure out that Jane Austen wasn’t being entirely serious when she wrote “Emma”. So could it be that all that is needed is a pointer in the right direction? Maybe. Penguin have a book on female comedy out- “The Penguin book of women’s humour”. Perhaps the answer is in there. Unfortunately I haven’t gotten around to reading it though. I suspect it might not be funny.

A Guide to Bar etiquette.

You're a tactless oaf and your personality needs bubble wrap. That is my message for you, today.
“But the Ale-house is the sole location where my usually faultless gentile behaviour CAN degrade into that of a slurring monkoid!” I hear you trumpet. And how right you are my furry little trousersnap. But as we all know deep down in the brains of our dicks and the rationality of our oestrogen*, there are indeed don’ts and there are indeed “oh god please don’t tell me she’s oh you bastard you fucking bastard please!” don’ts. HA! Many’s the time I’ve approached a gate monkey sporting the courage that only 15 Glenfiddich and Lucozades affords, and tried to bribe my way in with a banana. One banana!? Do you know how much one of those things EATS? A BUNCH maybe, but this time of night with one, yer dreamin. One time I actually tried to eat a fake banana from a display, but lets not wax lyrical. We’re talking etiquette honey child. (For those of you who resent being called this we have the more fitting “grapefruit child” or even “tamarillo child”. Its really up to you.)
We’ll try to cover all of the sewer dwelling rat bastards that together form the social protocol, along with the appropriate way to squash and kill each one. Sure I could have summed this whole introduction up in one sentence. I just did.
On to the first rat bastard, then.

1.Vomiting? Unless you want to wake up in the morning with some seriously funky smelling dreadlocks, invest in a hair clip.

2. Sleeping? It is actually possible to pass out with your eyes still open to avoid ejection, it just take a very advanced state of intoxication. Very very advanced.

3. Shouting? Try your hardest luv but I can hardly hear myself think in here! Just kidding. Actually shouting someone a round can be good if you have
-Mistakenly grabbed a six foot eight ex-con’s girlfriend’s arse.
-Mistakenly grabbed a six foot eight ex con.
-Mistakenly thrashed him in pool- you get the idea.
-Lots of money. Chances are if you’re really that loaded you’ll have exploited at least one person in the room. This way you can give something back.
Shouting can be bad for example if you are sending a round of drinks to a group girls in low cut tops who are twenty years your junior, whilst wearing a similarly low cut open shirt that reveals an abundance of chest sproutage matched only by the scouring cloth material you have on your back. By doing this you have just elevated yourself from “hideous nobody” to “lecherous sleaze”- topped only by “drooling maniac” and of course “clumsy git”.

4. Clumsiness? Yes- I mean you clumsy! You that just turned around at the mention of your name and laid to waste a whole tray of precariously layered shooters that were requested by punters in accordance with their own latent desires! (eg. Quick Fucks, Cocksuckers and for the hardware inclined, Screwdrivers) Yes you! Everyone hates you, you berk.

5. Penny Pinchery, Cheap Skatery and its overbearing parent, Style Buggary? Yes, you may raise a Connery eyebrow at that last category but you know you’re sliding yourself up to the nutbag in the arse of good taste with your drink buying cheapery, student. What’s this I see? G- Fresh-raw-original-denim-lasts-only-one-pissing-wash jeans? Tight-white-synthetic-rips-a-great-fucking-hole-in-itself-at-the-first-sight-of-cigarette-ash shirt? Shoes named after the monarchy? Fergie was the only true “Deluxe” royal and even she’s downsized to “Maxi”. Prioritize, angel-eyes. And you will, presuming you don’t actually like drinking cheap alcohol. Unless when you order it and everyone looks at you thinking “you cheap bastard” you smile smugly and wear it like a ragged plaid shirt. Unless you’re the type of guy who would sooner drag himself to the nearest hospital with two shattered kneecaps rather than admit he’s hurt. Someone who would show their undersized brillo wearing trouser ferret before they showed their feelings. I don’t criticise, Queensland is full of this type of person. But come on! The last time VB did a purity test at the Sydney laboratories they were told their horse would never race again!


Yes I believe I’ve covered the main concerns here, but seeing as at the end of the day your level if etiquette is really being determined by a shaven primate in black leather, you might as well not bother. In fact Ignore everything I just said. YA GOT BY SO FAR.

* joke, honestly.

Published in Large Magazine, summer 2003

DS Review: Phoenix Wright 3

Phoenix Wright Ace Attorney 3: Trials and Tribulations.

As a daily commuter on the Sydney Rail system, I rely heavily on some form of visual distraction in order to tolerate the trip. When you're tucked into the triangular crevice between Johnny Spread-Knee the human shoulder bag convoy and Timmy Type Two the 120 kilo Insulin time bomb, the only view you're going to get is of what you're holding in your two hands.

At this point, it's important to mention arm mobility. On an average train ride, one should expect their elbows to be effectively pinned to their sides, much like those creepy tall guys in Daft Punk's "around the world" video. This most certainly renders any titles requiring complex button presses and timing out of the question.

Any Brain Training titles are out of the question as well. While the Tourettes-afflicted are by no means banned from public transport, even the most somnambulent commuter would find a fellow passenger screaming, "BLUE! BLUE! BLUE!" at his shiny white book to be somewhat lacking in etiquette.

This is where the pink-tied, owl haired Phoenix Wright comes in. His popularity has meant that his original Gameboy Advance titles have been respun for the DS twice before, and I can almost guarantee it's greasy haired Cityrail benchwarmers like myself spearheading the movement.

Why? The Phoenix world is filled with twists and turns worthy of any pound of airport fiction. The translation is flawless bar the one or two spelling errors that only the most obsessed grammasochists would notice (apparently). The graphics have that classic japanimation "economy of expression" look, whereby a single frame of obscenely exaggerated posing counts for up to a minute of sticky backed action.

The characters themselves are more than up to this task. Phoenix has had about three poses total in the last 30 hours of gameplay, so it's encouraging to see him take the main stand in a pink knitted jumper and surgical mask. For the first episode, you even get to play as Mia Fey, who up until now has made most of her appearances as a curve laden spirit channelled from the dead into an eight year old's clothes. In case you're wondering, yes, the signature weirdness in this nature has remained for part three.

But after all, this is a game about being a lawyer from the land of Hentai and ninja game shows. You know it, I know it, and best of all, the translators know it. There's a constant knowing wink to the player about just how ridiculous some of the characters are, and far from detracting from the game, it adds to it.

In terms of difference, there really is nothing that much new in terms of gameplay. The learning curve is certainly a bit shallower than Phoenix Wright: And Justice for All, which makes little sense as it's only current fans that are going to be picking up what is essentially just a new episode of the series. The main changes this time round are the two chances to play as Mia Fey and the fact that this title has one more episode than the last game. Anyone hoping for something akin to the bonus episode of Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, which contained full motion video and 3D gameplay elements, is going to have to wait for the first DS exclusive iteration. Sadly, by then, Phoenix will have hung up his badge to make way for his protégé, "Apollo Justice". But if you are one of those types who believe the closer a protagonist's name gets to an alien porn star's the better, then it should be worth waiting for.

But If we can just go back to the whole "train play" thing I mentioned earlier, there should be no need to be disappointed by a lack of new features. Phoenix Wright is not so much a game as a series of interactive novels. Your money isn't going on a team of voice over artists paid to mimic the voices of the original cast, it's going on the sake, mushrooms and entertainment that clearly inspired the Japanese writers to such creativity.

So if Terry Pratchett is allowed to live in a castle made of gold and rare woods for his latest endeavour, (OMG! A magical version of the INTERNETS!) then Capcom's writing team should at the very least receive a nice holiday home overlooking the sea.