Do you Henry Charles Albert David take Rachel Meghan?

Vanity Fair

There are many who probably wished that Henry Charles Albert David took Rachel Meghan as far away as possible from our televisions, radios, newspapers and social media sites. Their nuptials certainly took over the media waves to a degree rarely matched except by the most distressing of universal disasters or malevolent activity.

I joined my close friends for a curry night - that menu item was to prove strangely prophetic before the night was over - to watch the preliminaries, the ceremonies and the pageantry. After all, my Republican leanings notwithstanding, the British stage these Royal events so impressively.

Predictably just about everything was achieved with the reliability of Swiss clockwork. The one standout exception and the most impressive element were both contributed by the lost colony of those pesky United States.

The exception was the Most Reverend Michael B Curry, Presiding Bishop and Primate of the Episcopal Church. In front of six hundred mostly British guests, by definition therefore staid impassive and unemotional, Bishop Curry departed from his prepared remarks and became...well...flamboyant. And he spent a long time doing it.

In our private, in front of the television, party this proved too much for both I and C who began to hurl insults at the screen. Unsurprisingly these insults had no impact upon the faraway Bishop; no doubt as uncaring as he was unknowing of his impact in Sydney suburban Seaforth.

Bishop Curry continued to wave his arms, modulate his excitable delivery and generally chew up precious celebrity spotting time which proved too much for I and C who both fled from the television room refusing to return until confirmation that his sermon was at ended. During that self imposed banishment C consoled himself with a second, and if I may say so greedy, helping of curry (of the chicken variety). Too much of (Bishop) Curry meant too much curry for C.

And the most impressive element? Without question or equal that award goes to Doria Ragland, the mother of the bride. Dignified and stylish, Ms Ragland stole the show without uttering a word; flamboyant or otherwise.

Good Housekeeping

No Such Thing As A Fish

We booked to see 'No Such Thing As A Fish' many months ago purely on the description that this is the title of a popular British podcast featuring four researchers behind the British television series 'QI'.

The performance was in two parts. The first half has each of the researchers providing a humorous presentation about their work and interests. The second half was a live recording of a podcast for future broadcast.

Many interesting and wacky facts. A little uneven but an interesting and mostly humorous experience.

✮✮✮

Shock Jock Rules in the Interval

I was taking some snaps of the orchestra and audience returning to their seats ahead of the resumption  of the Broadway to La Scala concert in the Sydney Opera House yesterday. I didn't notice the raised finger at the bottom until later.

But therein lies a story. The finger appears to be against the grey hair of a gentleman. But that was no gentleman. That grey-haired head belongs to a Radio Shock Jock. A very well known Sydney Shock Jock. Probably Australia's most notoriously known Shock Jock in a city which has a gaggle of notorious Shock Jocks.

Blow it; I'll tell you who. Alan Jones; that's who.

Mr Jones spent the twenty minutes long interval in deep conversation with a gentleman to his left. Throughout the conversation he waved his hands about extravagantly in the manner of someone who is laying down the law to a recalcitrant. Mr Jones is well used to laying down the law especially to people who are to his left. Mr Jones is accustomed to lecturing Prime Ministers, Premiers, sundry politicians, rugby players and his many, many listeners.

Curiously Mr Jones had a pen in hand throughout what appeared to be heavily a one sided conversation. Perhaps he'd been taking notes during the concert and didn't want to let go. Perhaps he was anticipating autograph hunters although I didn't notice any. Maybe he is just one of those who has a pen handy at all times.

I imagine Mr Jones will make mention of his attendance at the concert in his broadcast tomorrow morning. If so he might mention his interval discussion. I won't know. I tired of listening to Mr Jones' lecturing a long time ago.

Radio times

I was seven when television started in Australia but we didn't get one in our home until I was about ten. In my formative years home entertainment was sitting around a radio receiver every evening listening to serials and musical programs. Our imagination was a powerful tool with mental pictures of what was being portrayed in the serials forming in our minds.

I remember how my illusions of these seemingly life like serials evaporated when we went to a radio studio one day to see a serial being broadcast. I saw the reality of actors standing over a microphone with some bald headed man on the side creating the sound effects for doors closing, rain falling and the like. It was like learning the truth about Santa Claus.

Radio plays a different role in our lives nowadays and it is more difficult to win over listener imagination. Modern television and film and astonishing developments in computerised effects mean we are much more cynical and less easily deceived.

There is an advertisement currently broadcast on morning radio for a health service in Sydney specialising in depression. It is a serious matter. The advertisement depicts an apparently young groom tearfully talking about his young bride's depression. Even allowing for the obvious, the knowledge that this is an advertisement, the groom's tearful disclosure just doesn't ring true to me.

I suppose its all in the ear of the beholder but this is one message my imagination hasn't bought.

My station in aisle 6

I was idly scanning the digital radio stations last night when I came across a station I hadn't noticed previously, Coles Radio. Heigh Ho, I wondered is this the supermarket beast's background music in my own home? (No, I didn't really think 'Heigh Ho' but you get my meaning.)

Listening for a few minutes confirmed this was indeed a broadcast of the music played in the background at Coles stores, advertisements for store specials and all included.

No, I don't think I will save the station as one of my pre-set favourites.

The wonders of modern travel

One of the countless wonders of modern life and therefore also of modern travel is the capacity to listen to your local radio station live apparently from almost anywhere in the world.

Have a look at the 'app' displayed on my smart phone just now.

Where I am it is just after 4pm on Sunday and I am in Beverly Hills, Los Angeles USA listening to a live program from a local radio station in Australia where it is just after 9am on Monday.

Amongst the fun of experiencing the strange and different things about life overseas it is reassuring as well to have a moment to hear something, live, from home.

Radio daze

This is my latest toy, purchased yesterday afternoon with minimal forethought after leaving the movies and detouring to the super shopping mall on a whim.

Three 'levels'(?) of radio - AM, FM and Digital - a cute little remote control and an add on dock for my iPhone and iPod. It cost a bomb.

It has excellent sound. Well, as excellent as sound 'sounds' to me with my one totally deaf ear. Now I have to buy a table or stand for it to sit on. Isn't it odd that you have stands for things to sit on?

Toxic

Watching last night's television coverage on the ABC of the Western Australia state election was not the most riveting of evenings.

Julie Bishop speaking (as usual) whilst Steve Smith turns to his phone

The result was obvious from the start so there was no suspense nor tension, apart from Labor Federal Minister Steve Smith's gnashing of teeth as one dire voting return after another was posted for his party. Smith is a nice fellow and I felt some relief for him as several results turned his party's way later in the evening. Sure, mostly those later swings only meant his party had lost a seat by a lesser margin than earlier feared but still it constituted some element of good news.

The Conservative's Julie Bishop induced gnashing teeth on my part, her manner being particularly irritating. Each time she spoke it was like chalk scraping down a blackboard. Unlike Smith who maintained a regal political impartiality Bishop missed no opportunities to rub the result in Smith's face. When Bishop surmised the State result was a product of Labor's toxic brand nationally I decided enough was enough.

I turned to the radio for the remainder of the evening which mostly constituted the two leaders' victory/concession statements. The Liberal leader's statement was fairly typical without being unduly triumphant. The losing Labor leader, unknown to me, seemed positive enough in defeat but what I took away most from his statement was a peculiar mannerism of repeating his sentences. I wondered for a time whether my digital radio had developed a transmission blip.

Conversations

Richard Fidler (ABC Radio)

Since rediscovering my iPod I have become hooked on listening to radio podcasts and viewing the occasional downloaded television program.

One of my favourite podcasts is the mid morning ABC Local Radio program Conversations with Richard Fidler which I gather originates from Queensland and whilst it is also broadcast here in NSW it apparently is not in Victoria where I gleaned from something Andrew posted that they have an equivalent program hosted by a Melbourne broadcaster.

Fidler is an excellent interviewer and invariably generates fascinating interviews even of subjects and matters that otherwise wouldn't necessarily interest me. He always seems to have done excellent research for his interviews and clearly has an excellent mind and knowledge which he uses brilliantly to enagage his interviewees in conversation that is never mundane.

As you can tell, I like his program.

Don't you agree?

Why do they do it?

I've always assumed that the purpose of a radio or television interview is for the interviewer to elicit information or opinions from the interviewee. To my mind an interview is not intended to be a soap box for the interviewer to express their opinion bulldozing any view, whether that be contrary or in agreement, that the interviewee might possess.

So why do so many interviewers ask long winded questions that in reality are not questions at all but rather statements of their opinion leaving no real opportunity for the interviewee to respond?

Don't believe everything you hear....

The redoubtable Andrew has posted a cautionary tale about placing trust in what you hear on the radio. It is a valid point. I've long realised that not everything stated on the radio is correct especially (and I suppose obviously) on those commercial stations that rely on 'shock jocks' to inform their listeners.

For the most part I've assumed that Australia's public broadcaster the ABC is more reliable and cautious about the information it broadcasts. For years I've admired Margaret Throsby who has a morning program on the Classic FM network.

Margaret Throsby

Margaret's program where she talks to a guest and discusses their work/life with the guest's personal selection of musical items interposed has always struck me as brilliantly researched. But even the formidable Margaret makes mistakes. I was listening last weekend to a podcast of a recent broadcast where the guest, a Singaporean artist, selected a tune from the musical 'Chess'. At least twice Margaret referred to 'Chess' as an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical which it is not. Now this is not a major piece of misinformation in the broader scheme of things but I thought it a surprising mistake from such an experienced broadcaster.

Pass me the fruit, please...

I've been slow to adapt to the fruit that has been bitten. Friends told me years ago that I should change over to Apple products but I was always loathe to make the jump and when eventually I did show some courage I might as well have thrown my money out the window for the use I made of my purchases.

My first tentative purchase was an iPod Classic bought about...oh, I suppose five years ago. My rationale for the purchase was that even with one deaf ear it would still be nice to have access to my favourite music and as a bonus to listen to favoured radio programs at my convenience. Indeed an iPod would even be good for my health I reasoned because I would walk more often encouraged by the company of what I could listen to as I exercised. The clincher was my observation that absolutely everyone aged under 25 was wandering the streets attached to one of these little gadgets and if everyone of them was able to utilise this technology...well...how difficult could it be?

I purchased a very smart looking black item which came boxed in its even smarter figure hugging packaging. I could scarcely contain my excitement as I opened up the box with its new toy when I got it home. It was downhill from that point. Yes, it looked fabulous but the little concertina leaflet accompanying it was not so much a guide to using my wonderful new lifestyle bauble but rather a glossy advertisement for its features.

It was no use complaining to my friends about the absence of anything remotely resembling an instructions handbook. 'Oh', they shrieked, rolling dilated eyes furiously, 'its all so intuitive, that's why they are so great'. Well ladies, all I can say is that one fruit's intuition is another queen's bewilderment.

Yes, I did manage to download iTunes and I did purchase something or other online that appeared essential to the setup process only to realise that I'd paid for something I didn't really need, didn't really want and could no longer retrieve anyway.

Eventually through trial and error...er...my intuition...I was able to download some of my CDs but the effort involved seemed so draining that I was dispirited. I carefully placed my shiny new and barely used iPod Classic in a drawer and blanked it from my mind.

Time softens attitudes and so when a few years later I started to think about purchasing a notebook for upcoming travel so that I could keep in touch with my favourite blogs as well as update my own whilst on the run my mind turned, naturally, to the partly bitten fruit product. After all how attractive are all those young men leading their cafe lives with a wirelessly activated slimline MacBook at their manicured fingertips. That was going to be me any day now, I reasoned.

I spent a few weeks researching what was on offer and eventually purchased my own MacBook (black, of course) with its various stunningly boxed attachments. From purchase on it was all downhill again. Once again the concertina leaflet that was nothing more than an advertisement for the MacBook's features was of no help to me and my intuition...no my bewilderment...won out. The drawer that contained my long neglected iPod Classic was not big enough for the MacBook so another drawer had to be found. Out of sight, out of mind.

Fast forward to late last year and as I blogged at the time I just had to get an iPhone. It was as though I had contracted an irresistible infection that had taken full control over me. Never mind that I was 0 from 2 in my success rate with partly bitten fruit products. I should not have been surprised when I unboxed my new iPhone to find it accompanied by a concertina leaflet advertising the phone's features but with not a line of instructions therein.

But a mobile phone is a mobile phone - an essential lifeline nowadays - and I was not going to throw my new iPhone largely unused into a drawer like I did with the earlier purchases. This time I persevered and now am a happy, if still not fully realised, iPhone owner and user.

Which brings me back to my iPod Classic. Today, I pulled it out of my drawer and with iPod: The Missing Manual in tow I reassembled my still slick looking little black number, reloaded iTunes, and successfully and reasonably efficiently downloaded both music and radio podcasts.

My intuition is back, baby!

Enough already!

As Sydney's record breaking heatwave (more about that below) moves into it's 7th day we took shelter yesterday in several air conditioned locations.

First stop late morning was to see blogger Brenton Parry's photographic exhibition 'Shrouded' in a small upstairs gallery in a quiet side street in Chippendale. The morning was burningly hot to the skin and Brenton's subjects were hot too. Thankfully the gallery was nicely cooled. The subjects in the 15 photographs are all discreetly naked. Most of the photos feature solo men and this one, the only group photo, is my favourite from the collection.



Ryen, Duncan, Joshua & Kane by Brenton Parry

 After the exhibition we drove across to Randwick to the Ritz to see a movie, any movie, that would give us two hours of cool. The one we chose, only because it was commencing in five minutes, did not impress but that is for another post.

Yesterday the temperature in Sydney passed 30c (86f) for the sixth day in succession setting a new record and to emphasise that record the maximum reached was a mere 41c (106f). That made yesterday Sydney's hottest February day for 85 years. And the heat continues, last night being Sydney's hottest night ever according to the radio news this morning.

A cool change with showers and thunderstorms is forecast to reach Sydney later this morning. I hope the storms are not what Andrew experienced in Melbourne on Friday. Until then the heat drags on with a maximum of 32c (90f) plus forecast for this morning before the change arrives. If achieved that will well and truly seal the new heatwave record at seven days.

I'm No Twit

I must be into a routine with my blogging as I didn't notice the third anniversary of this blog pass by on 11 January.

I'm not averse to modern technology and new fads even if my participation is a beat or two behind the advance guard. I was a Facebook addict for all of three weeks some years ago but my addiction quickly dissolved under the weight of mindless email updates, a flood of compete stranger friend requests and countless unwanted pokes that the network generated. I left my account open for a while but then thought better of it and privatised it, or whatever their technical term for making it go invisible is, after I realised that the mechanisms for removing the account altogether were deliberately made impossible for mere mortals like myself to achieve.

I also tried the next must have accessory...a Twitter account. This seemed like a good idea at the time if only because you couldn't post an item of more than 140 characters (including spaces) thus providing less of a literary challenge to me to produce an interesting item for publication. At least, that's what I thought. As I soon realised, the minimalist restriction in fact made it more difficult to produce interesting comments. Flowery language and lengthy metaphors disappear ignominiously at character number 141 no matter how profound the thought.

More to the point I went into a state of mental paralysis as I tried to think of something...anything...witty or interesting enough to publish in 140 characters or less to the universe at large. As a consequence my Tweets quickly dried up. There were only so many times I could Tweet about the weather or where I was coming/going or what I was eating/drinking before I felt less like a Tweet and decidedly more of a Twit.

Despite this paucity of quality Tweeting I managed a small...very small...list of followers although tellingly almost to a person each follower only emerged after I had started to follow them. Tweeters are certainly considerate and polite in this aspect apparently not willing to hurt my feelings by resisting what surely would be the tiniest of urges to be the automatic recipient of my once in a blue moon puerile pronouncements.

One Blogger/Tweeter I am a follower of works in the media. I enjoy his blogging and whilst his Tweets are less of interest to me I found once in a while a useful announcement from him about some or other radio broadcast. Unfortunately because I rarely checked in on Twitter-land I was discovering these interesting Tweets too late to catch the broadcast. What to do? Fortuitously..or was it?...I discovered the facility to receive Tweets on my mobile and so I linked said Blogger/Tweeter's Tweets to my phone. This seemed a good idea...for a while. Certainly, I was now receiving said Blogger/Tweeter's Tweets - (aside; is this starting to read like an elocution lesson?) - in a timely manner including the occasional broadcast announcements and verily this was good. Unfortunately I was also receiving his less interesting (to me) Tweets in just as timely a manner and verily this was bad especially as I had not figured on us having different lifestyle habits; that is, I was in bed trying to be fast asleep as my phone beeped his latest missive at 1am, 2am and occasionally almost 3am. Sadly, I disconnected said (good Internet mate) Blogger/Tweeter from my mobile but at least I still have my daily read of his Blog to keep me going.

Whilst my Tweet inadequacies are glaringly obvious to anyone who comes across my account other Tweeters are clearly going gangbusters. One interesting aspect of Twitter for me is how one account opens up gateways to countless other accounts and a casual trip along the Tweet alleyways reveals an entire universe of fascinating publishers. Their accounts are so colourful to the eye with an endless array of personalised styles and layouts. Most of the Tweets are incomprehensible to me but their pronouncements scroll on page after page in a dizzying exchange within their community of Tweeters.

How much time must some of them spend in Twitter-land? One Tweeter I came across this morning was sending messages out at a rate of every two minutes almost everyone of which was a comment on some other Tweeter's Tweet. How does he do it? He must read a host of other Tweets all the while responding to them as he does so. There was no indication that he stops for meals, a rest or even, for goodness sake, toilet breaks.

No, that's not for me. I'm not a twit.

I wanna stick around a while and get my kicks*

('Jailhouse Rock' by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller)

This weekend every year - the second in January - the regional town of Parkes holds it's Elvis Presley Festival and every year the media reports on the Elvis Express, a train which conveys participants to the festival from Sydney.

Reporting the event this year I heard James' ABC refer to the various Elvis Presleys travelling as the 'Elv-eye'. I presume this is now the approved term for a number of Elvises.

That's fine by me.

The Elv-eye have left the room.

Our Town

In the fifteen years or so that I have subscribed to the Sydney Theatre Company only once have I arrived at the theatre to find a performance had been cancelled. Otherwise performances have proceeded and done so promptly or at the least within minutes of the scheduled time.

Tonight a performance was delayed by half an hour for circumstances beyond 'our' control, according to the announcement. Who 'our' is was not explained. What happened? Had a performer been delayed in traffic? Or thrown a hissy fit and refused to perform? Or...hope springs eternal...been caught 'in flagrante delicto'? Well, we never found out because the 'circumstances' were never revealed.

For years now I have seen American movies in which a High School has been said to be performing Thornton Wilder's 'Our Town'. I had begun to wonder whether this play was not real but simply a device to denote a play in the same way that American movies use the telephone prefix 555 so as not to inadvertantly advertise an actual telephone number to the world in general.

So it was with interest that I came to the Sydney Theatre Company's production of 'Our Town'. I must not have been alone in my interest as amongst the audience tonight were the famous wife of an even more famous Prime Minister, the state's controversial Director of Public Prosecutions and a number of other lumineries.

'Our Town' is a play in three acts, set in the early years of the 20th century in a small fictional regional town, Grover's Corners, a sort of every town where life is simple, familiar and unthreatening. The first act introduces the town and it's folk, the second act covers love and marriage and the final act moves to death and regret. It is easy to see why this play would be a favourite of schools if only because the staging is so simple. No set to speak of, with the actors miming the objects that they use.

It took me a while to settle into this style and once I did I found the first act interesting and amusing. The second act was very amusing but the final act - 'the message act' - I found fairly dour. Basically the message seemed to be 'enjoy life whilst you can'.

The most impressive aspect of this production was the beautiful use and timing of sound effects. It reminded me of my pre-teen days when my parents took me to see several radio plays performed and I marvelled at how the sounds I had always assumed to be real were actually created.

Vile Dandyman

This man is renowned - if that is the appropriate adjective - in Australian broadcasting especially for a number of spectacularly ill considered comments and antics. I won't dignify his reputation by printing his name.

This broadcaster was suspended for a while but is now back on both radio and television.

An article about him in one of Sydney's leading newspapers today reports

"(He) reveals in the Media Week podcast that (a colleague) complained he felt bullied to human resources last year. It doesn't seem to have had much effect because (he) goes on to say: “(the colleague) was running off down to HR . . . bitching and carrying on . . . I told him you can argue back . . . but you are never going to win . . . (the colleague's) an older gay man, easily offended.”

What a jerk!

Catching up

I'm not averse to new technology nor am I resistant to change but when it comes to the former I sometimes I hold back a while before dipping my toe in the water. So it has taken me until this morning to have my first go at getting digital photographs printed from one those commercial photo centres. Up till now I've had no need for any professional prints, relying on sending my photos by email to friends and downloading photos to my electronic photo frame (last year's birthday gift) for any that I wanted to display at home.

I needed some prints this time because I wanted to send some to a friend who does not have an email account. Yesterday I visited a nearby centre to observe others ordering their prints from those photo machines. I found that it was not easy to observe unobtrusively and I imagine the customers assumed I was sneaking a peek at their photographs. Actually the machinery was such a blur to me that checking out the photographs of others was the last thing on my mind but I ascertained what I wanted to know and returned this morning with my tiny USB thingy to make my order. As with most computerised things nowadays the process was so straightforward I wondered afterwards why it had taken me so long to make the attempt.

Anyway I had a thirty minutes wait for my prints to be ready and spent most of that time wandering around the rest of the store. By coincidence, earlier this morning, I read James' post about the purchase of a digital radio. Now that is another item I have been thinking about for some time but have not yet indulged myself by purchasing.

In truth it would be an indulgence. I'm not aware of much that is on offer on the digital stations that isn't a duplicate of what is provided on the main frequencies. The only real benefit for me is the promised quality of the broadcast. I have noticed a deterioration in the quality of the radio reception I have received over the past twenty years which I put down to increasing interference from building works and new high rise developments in my vicinity.

The cost of the digital receivers is offputting but even more so is the size and, to my taste, clunky look of most of them. Why are they so big? And why do most of them look like they were designed in the 1950s? And another thing, why are so many of them brand types completely unknown to me? At least today, I finally saw some Grundigs and Yamahas; names that are familiar.

I'm tempted to investigate the radios further but where will I place one if I do buy? None of my logical furniture pieces has sufficient surface space available for the size of most of the units on display. It would be just a tad ridiculous to purchase new furniture to accommodate a digital radio.

Radio Daze

Sydney's radio stations all broadcast their breakfast programs from Martin Place this morning to promote the introduction of digital radio.

I listened to a few of the stations on my non-digital receiver and they were all busy promoting the joys of this 'wonderful' service. Enthused by this marketing ploy I checked the Sydney Morning Herald's 'Guide' which this week reported on various digital receivers noting their pros and cons. Nothing could be less encouraging than that report.

All the receivers are expensive. Whilst that wouldn't necessarily deter me from purchasing a unit the fact that almost every receiver reviewed contained failings ranging from poor screen scrolling through weak output to one that barely produced a digital service(!) means that I won't be rushing to sign up.

I'll wait until there is more digital product on offer, the receivers are of better quality and the price is more reasonable.

(Sorry, James.)

A dog of a story

I tend to sleep in a bit on Sunday mornings laying in bed and listening in a sleepy haze to the short story that is broadcast on Radio National at 8.30am. The stories are read (acted out) by a single performer and run for no more than fifteen minutes.

I often fail to take in the first bit of a story then realise too late that it is really interesting. This morning I had the opposite experience. The story was about two men who have a falling out and one is bitten by a dog owned by the other. The longer the story went on, the stranger it seemed.

I felt like contacting James and asking for an explanation of this dog of a story. James is Content Director of ABC Local Radio 702BL, Radio National's sister station in Sydney. He probably has no role whatever in what Radio National does but I was bursting to understand what the public broadcaster was serving me for my 'eight cents' today.