Just a few thoughts on my latest uni (mis)adventures.
I've a photography assignment due next week, so obviously it hasn't stopped raining in Innisfail for days. It can be sunny everywhere else in the world and it'll be raining here. Guaranteed. I'm starting to think I'm related to the Munsters or maybe the Addams family, as our house always seems to have a thunderstorm hovering permanently above it.
Maybe I'm just being too cynical and I'm looking at it all wrong. I should be thanking the universe for turning the backyard into a paddy field, it now reminds me of holidays in Vietnam and Thailand. If life gives you lemons...ah, forget that make lemonade nonsense...lets drink tequila!
Once my photo assignment's done, the only thing left to do this semester is to revise for my political science exam. Won't that be fun? I haven't chosen my elective subject for next semester yet, though it's a pretty safe bet it won't be anything to do with political science. You don't have to be Tom Waterhouse to work out those odds.
Driving to Townsville and back every week got to be a chore pretty quickly. Singing to myself to pass the time wasn't working so I thought I'd liven the journey up with an audio-book from the library. I chose Peter FitzSimons' Kokoda for my first audio-book, and while I can't vouch for it's historical accuracy, it was certainly a great piece of story telling. 16 hours and 50 minutes worth in fact, on 14 CDs, read by Lewis Fitz-Gerald, whose narration was excellent and brought the story to life. Loved it.
Saturday, 1 June 2013
Tuesday, 28 May 2013
Addiction, Journalism and David Carr
Do you ever get the feeling that the universe is pushing you in a certain direction and you'd be wise to just let yourself be taken where it wants you go? I'm talking about those times when a name or place that you've never heard before just keeps popping up.
Last week in our journalism lecture, Marie had us watch the documentary Page One: Inside the New York Times. One of the journalists featured in the movie was David Carr. He reminded me a bit of Tommy Lee Jones, only crankier. Marie said he was on Twitter and was an interesting writer to follow. It was mentioned in the movie that he'd recovered from a twenty-year drug addiction and that rang a bell with me. I was sure I'd heard of him before.
I checked him out later and that bell was ringing because I'd seen his book, The Night of the Gun, while I was looking at journalism books on Amazon. It recounts his investigation into his life when he was on drugs; his own recollection was a little...shall we say hazy... and he uses his skills as a journalist to go back and interview his friends and family to find out what he really got up to all those years ago.
Today after uni, I went into the shops to buy a new notebook (it's an exciting life!) and as I was passing QBD, I thought I'd go in and have a quick look. Yep, you've guessed it, there was The Night of the Gun calling out to me from the top shelf, it even had that special university student sticker on it...NOW: $4.99.
I'm up to Chapter Five and Marie's right, he is an interesting writer. Very interesting.
Last week in our journalism lecture, Marie had us watch the documentary Page One: Inside the New York Times. One of the journalists featured in the movie was David Carr. He reminded me a bit of Tommy Lee Jones, only crankier. Marie said he was on Twitter and was an interesting writer to follow. It was mentioned in the movie that he'd recovered from a twenty-year drug addiction and that rang a bell with me. I was sure I'd heard of him before.
I checked him out later and that bell was ringing because I'd seen his book, The Night of the Gun, while I was looking at journalism books on Amazon. It recounts his investigation into his life when he was on drugs; his own recollection was a little...shall we say hazy... and he uses his skills as a journalist to go back and interview his friends and family to find out what he really got up to all those years ago.
Today after uni, I went into the shops to buy a new notebook (it's an exciting life!) and as I was passing QBD, I thought I'd go in and have a quick look. Yep, you've guessed it, there was The Night of the Gun calling out to me from the top shelf, it even had that special university student sticker on it...NOW: $4.99.
I'm up to Chapter Five and Marie's right, he is an interesting writer. Very interesting.
Sunday, 26 May 2013
Yungaburra Markets
It's not often that my brilliant idea to go to Yungaburra markets actually gets us there. It's usually because I've got the day or the week wrong, or forgotten that we're going somewhere else, but yesterday the market gods and I were in perfect harmony for once.
The sun was shining, so we followed the advice of our Innisfail friends and wore just about all of the clothes we own. They're of the opinion that anywhere on the Atherton Tablelands will always be at least five degrees colder than here in Innisfail, and it was advice we did well to follow. The sun may have been out but there was an icy wind whistling through the stalls.
It was pretty easy to pick the locals. For the most part they were the ones rugged up in ski-jackets and ugg boots. The tourists were easy to spot too, blue skinned and shivering, they were the ones warming themselves in the steam from their over-priced coffees. Occasionally, we'd spot that Queensland oddity, the barefoot man, clad in shorts, singlet and a beanie - to keep out the cold.
For me, a trip to the markets always seems to have the thrill of a treasure hunt; I don't know what's there but I suspect it's something good and it's out there somewhere, I just have to find it. It may be an interesting book at the second-hand stall, a spicy pastry triangle to tempt the taste buds and/or spill down my shirt or the latest nut cracker/torch/socket set/pocket knife gadget, all have to be checked out.
Cyndi found her treasure at a stall that was just closing for the day, a purple skirt for a dollar. She was the only successful treasure hunter yesterday, I found nothing. No repeat of the cappuccino ice-cream discovered at Port Douglas markets, or the $8 autobiography of an Australian prisoner of war who'd worked on the Thai-Burma railway, found at Rusty's market a week after getting back from Hellfire Pass in Thailand.
I did consider buying a couple of books at the book stall but figured I'd never have the time to read them, something I find quite ironic. I thought going to uni would mean lots of reading, and I guess to a certain extent it does, though it's more skimming to gather information than reading for pleasure. Still, by the time I finish my degree in a few year's time, I'll have a couple of Lee Child or Stuart McBride novels to catch up on. By my calculations, there'll also be around 250 new James Patterson novels on the shelves by then too.
It was pretty easy to pick the locals. For the most part they were the ones rugged up in ski-jackets and ugg boots. The tourists were easy to spot too, blue skinned and shivering, they were the ones warming themselves in the steam from their over-priced coffees. Occasionally, we'd spot that Queensland oddity, the barefoot man, clad in shorts, singlet and a beanie - to keep out the cold.
For me, a trip to the markets always seems to have the thrill of a treasure hunt; I don't know what's there but I suspect it's something good and it's out there somewhere, I just have to find it. It may be an interesting book at the second-hand stall, a spicy pastry triangle to tempt the taste buds and/or spill down my shirt or the latest nut cracker/torch/socket set/pocket knife gadget, all have to be checked out.
I did consider buying a couple of books at the book stall but figured I'd never have the time to read them, something I find quite ironic. I thought going to uni would mean lots of reading, and I guess to a certain extent it does, though it's more skimming to gather information than reading for pleasure. Still, by the time I finish my degree in a few year's time, I'll have a couple of Lee Child or Stuart McBride novels to catch up on. By my calculations, there'll also be around 250 new James Patterson novels on the shelves by then too.
Saturday, 25 May 2013
Investigative Journalism
Of all the journalism lectures this semester, the ones I looked forward to most were the ones on photojournalism and investigative reporting.
The photojournalism is probably easiest to explain. I've been interested in photography for years. I bought a camera, learnt the basics of exposure and composition and studied the works of the great photographers to learn how they captured their images. The ones that fascinated me the most were the photojournalists and the war photographers. Robert Capa. Don McCullin. Larry Burrows. James Natchwey. I loved the way Burrows and W. Eugene Smith told entire stories with their photo essays.
As for the investigative journalism? Well, that seems to be a natural extension of an interest in whodunnits, cryptic crosswords and sifting through documents looking for lost relatives. I also get pretty cranky at the various abuses of power that occur in society and I'm a firm believer that one of the main roles of the press is to hold the powerful accountable for some of their less reputable decisions. It's an area of journalism that I'm certainly interested in pursuing, though according to the books on investigative journalism in the uni library I'm not alone; just about every other journalism student sees their future in it too!
John Pilger believes that the term investigative journalist is wrong as every journalist is, in theory, supposed to investigate and check facts before publishing. Other authors however disagree and consider that investigative journalism differs completely from general news reporting. Investigative reporters have to take their suspicions of wrong doing, whether it be an abuse of power or an official cover-up, and then find the evidence to prove their story. It's a long term process, one that requires evidence gathering and fact checking. If you read "All The President's Men" you'll discover the meticulous care that Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward took in trying to ensure that their facts were correct in their Watergate investigation (you'll also discover the consequences too when they slipped up).
In the lecture we looked at the attributes an investigative journalist needs to possess. An interest in whodunnits, cryptic crosswords and sifting through documents looking for lost relatives wasn't specifically on the list though having good research skills was, along with determination, patience and good reporting skills.
Marie also spoke of the need to ensure that a story has public interest; a community should either benefit from a story, or be disadvantaged by not knowing it. She gave us a few examples of stories and we had to decide if they could be classed as examples of investigative journalism. I have my own example, one that appeared in the Sunday Mail last year. At the time I wasn't too impressed with this story; it seemed to me that listening in on a driver's phone call was more an invasion of privacy than investigative journalism, especially if it was recorded so it could be translated later. Looking at the whole story again, I think I can add a lack of public interest to my list of objections, though at least they didn't call it Currygate.
The photojournalism is probably easiest to explain. I've been interested in photography for years. I bought a camera, learnt the basics of exposure and composition and studied the works of the great photographers to learn how they captured their images. The ones that fascinated me the most were the photojournalists and the war photographers. Robert Capa. Don McCullin. Larry Burrows. James Natchwey. I loved the way Burrows and W. Eugene Smith told entire stories with their photo essays.
As for the investigative journalism? Well, that seems to be a natural extension of an interest in whodunnits, cryptic crosswords and sifting through documents looking for lost relatives. I also get pretty cranky at the various abuses of power that occur in society and I'm a firm believer that one of the main roles of the press is to hold the powerful accountable for some of their less reputable decisions. It's an area of journalism that I'm certainly interested in pursuing, though according to the books on investigative journalism in the uni library I'm not alone; just about every other journalism student sees their future in it too!
John Pilger believes that the term investigative journalist is wrong as every journalist is, in theory, supposed to investigate and check facts before publishing. Other authors however disagree and consider that investigative journalism differs completely from general news reporting. Investigative reporters have to take their suspicions of wrong doing, whether it be an abuse of power or an official cover-up, and then find the evidence to prove their story. It's a long term process, one that requires evidence gathering and fact checking. If you read "All The President's Men" you'll discover the meticulous care that Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward took in trying to ensure that their facts were correct in their Watergate investigation (you'll also discover the consequences too when they slipped up).
In the lecture we looked at the attributes an investigative journalist needs to possess. An interest in whodunnits, cryptic crosswords and sifting through documents looking for lost relatives wasn't specifically on the list though having good research skills was, along with determination, patience and good reporting skills.
Marie also spoke of the need to ensure that a story has public interest; a community should either benefit from a story, or be disadvantaged by not knowing it. She gave us a few examples of stories and we had to decide if they could be classed as examples of investigative journalism. I have my own example, one that appeared in the Sunday Mail last year. At the time I wasn't too impressed with this story; it seemed to me that listening in on a driver's phone call was more an invasion of privacy than investigative journalism, especially if it was recorded so it could be translated later. Looking at the whole story again, I think I can add a lack of public interest to my list of objections, though at least they didn't call it Currygate.
Monday, 20 May 2013
I Say About My Essay
My political science essay has been tweaked enough. If it's not ready for the attentions of the Associate Professor by now, it probably never will be. My first essay at university, a labour of anything but love.
It's my own fault though. I'm the one who chose it. We were told to select a political puzzle that interested us and then unravel it using comparative political science. I had the (possibly not so clever) idea of finding out why Australia gives less foreign aid than we promised in 2000, and Norway gives more. Lots more.
It turns out that the reason the Australian government gives less foreign aid than they should is because they can get away with it. Labor or Coalition, it doesn't seem to matter who's in power, they're not held to the promise, so they happily use the aid budget as they see fit. In fact, now that $375 million of foreign aid that was originally destined to be used overseas is being spent here on asylum seekers, we've become the third highest recipient of Australian aid!
After sleepless nights knowing that the deadline was looming, I knuckled down and did something else. I knew the essay was still there though, just waiting, biding it's time throughout the day and calling out to me at 4am. I did eventually start it though, and more importantly managed to finish it, whether it makes sense or not is a different matter.
Now for the exam...
It's my own fault though. I'm the one who chose it. We were told to select a political puzzle that interested us and then unravel it using comparative political science. I had the (possibly not so clever) idea of finding out why Australia gives less foreign aid than we promised in 2000, and Norway gives more. Lots more.
It turns out that the reason the Australian government gives less foreign aid than they should is because they can get away with it. Labor or Coalition, it doesn't seem to matter who's in power, they're not held to the promise, so they happily use the aid budget as they see fit. In fact, now that $375 million of foreign aid that was originally destined to be used overseas is being spent here on asylum seekers, we've become the third highest recipient of Australian aid!
After sleepless nights knowing that the deadline was looming, I knuckled down and did something else. I knew the essay was still there though, just waiting, biding it's time throughout the day and calling out to me at 4am. I did eventually start it though, and more importantly managed to finish it, whether it makes sense or not is a different matter.
Now for the exam...
Saturday, 18 May 2013
Let Me Sell You A Story...
Our last two lecture sessions were spent presenting our final journalism assignment for the semester, the story pitch.
We had to develop a story idea, find all the information and sources needed, figure out the best type of medium to use in telling the story and then decide on the most appropriate media outlet to approach with our idea. We also had to identify the associated news values and outline any ethical dilemmas.
After gathering everything together, we had to present our story idea to our classmates - and Marie - who played the role of the editorial board for our chosen outlet. They then picked our idea apart, looking for glaring omissions or errors in judgement. If that wasn't enough pressure, the story pitch assignment was worth 40 percent of our final grade and we only had four minutes to make our presentation.
I initially thought of a story explaining the benefits of the National Disability Insurance Scheme, but the 2018 implementation date didn't make it a timely enough story, one that is relevant right now. Of course, the week I made my pitch, the increase to the Medicare levy to pay for the scheme had just been announced, making my untimely idea one of the hottest stories of the week.
I found another story idea, a convoluted tale full of intrigue and political dealing, possibly even political misdealing, though my dilemma was how to present it. I felt that to understand the parts of the story that I wanted to investigate and report on, the editorial board would need to know their relevance in relation to a complex chain of events.
I bought a book on presentations which recommended writing a single word summation of your key points on Post-it notes to get your thoughts in order. This worked well until I turned the fan on and my supposedly super sticky little yellow squares fluttered around the room like jaundiced suicidal butterflies. Still, they'd stuck long enough for me to work out what I wanted to say, my next problem was how to say it.
My book said to forget torturing your audience with PowerPoint presentations, an idea I whole-heartedly agreed with. I'd had enough problems fighting an uncooperative Excel spreadsheet during my media diary assignment, and certainly didn't want to wrestle with yet another recalcitrant Microsoft product during this one. I decided to write a script and read it out. The book said not to, but I have trouble remembering a drink order at the pub (except my bit, I always get that right) and there was no way I'd remember the entire story pitch.
I practised reading my script out in a strong, clear voice until I could do it flawlessly. My ideas flowed, my story had impact and I could explain it all in under four minutes. I was pumped, I was primed, I was ready to pitch. Of course, on the day, my new found presenting skills deserted me and I stuttered and spluttered my way through my pitch before gratefully collapsing back in my seat, happy that the easy part was over. The hardest part, that nerve-racking wait for the result, had only just begun...
We had to develop a story idea, find all the information and sources needed, figure out the best type of medium to use in telling the story and then decide on the most appropriate media outlet to approach with our idea. We also had to identify the associated news values and outline any ethical dilemmas.
After gathering everything together, we had to present our story idea to our classmates - and Marie - who played the role of the editorial board for our chosen outlet. They then picked our idea apart, looking for glaring omissions or errors in judgement. If that wasn't enough pressure, the story pitch assignment was worth 40 percent of our final grade and we only had four minutes to make our presentation.
I initially thought of a story explaining the benefits of the National Disability Insurance Scheme, but the 2018 implementation date didn't make it a timely enough story, one that is relevant right now. Of course, the week I made my pitch, the increase to the Medicare levy to pay for the scheme had just been announced, making my untimely idea one of the hottest stories of the week.
I found another story idea, a convoluted tale full of intrigue and political dealing, possibly even political misdealing, though my dilemma was how to present it. I felt that to understand the parts of the story that I wanted to investigate and report on, the editorial board would need to know their relevance in relation to a complex chain of events.
I bought a book on presentations which recommended writing a single word summation of your key points on Post-it notes to get your thoughts in order. This worked well until I turned the fan on and my supposedly super sticky little yellow squares fluttered around the room like jaundiced suicidal butterflies. Still, they'd stuck long enough for me to work out what I wanted to say, my next problem was how to say it.
My book said to forget torturing your audience with PowerPoint presentations, an idea I whole-heartedly agreed with. I'd had enough problems fighting an uncooperative Excel spreadsheet during my media diary assignment, and certainly didn't want to wrestle with yet another recalcitrant Microsoft product during this one. I decided to write a script and read it out. The book said not to, but I have trouble remembering a drink order at the pub (except my bit, I always get that right) and there was no way I'd remember the entire story pitch.
I practised reading my script out in a strong, clear voice until I could do it flawlessly. My ideas flowed, my story had impact and I could explain it all in under four minutes. I was pumped, I was primed, I was ready to pitch. Of course, on the day, my new found presenting skills deserted me and I stuttered and spluttered my way through my pitch before gratefully collapsing back in my seat, happy that the easy part was over. The hardest part, that nerve-racking wait for the result, had only just begun...
Tuesday, 14 May 2013
Muster Musings
When Cyndi told me last week about her plans for pulling a 4WD on Sunday at the Ute and Truck Muster in Innisfail, I thought I'd be able to take some photos and write a blog post about the event. However, other mysterious forces came into play and conspired against me. I feel I didn't do a very good job on the photos and I thought I'd explain why.
I woke on Sunday morning feeling very seedy. Yes, I'd had a few drinkies the night before, but not enough to explain the way I was feeling. Little old ladies have annoyed me for years with their inability to describe what "squamy" felt like after I'd been called to treat them as a paramedic. After Sunday morning I think I have a pretty good idea of what squamy feels like.
It seems to sum up quite nicely the gurgling, churning, cramping, just-about-to-vomit-feeling I experienced. I can't say if weapons-grade farts are part of feeling squamy but they are a part of drinking Guinness, so I'm not sure whether I can officially put that down under the confirmed signs and symptoms of squamy. However, I can testify that Cyndi wasn't the least bit impressed with my swamp gas aroma and banned me from doing anymore, anywhere in her vicinity. In fact, a suburb away was probably still too close.
I rallied though. Cyndi dosed me up with her herbal remedies, and I eventually got my act together, sorted out my camera gear and off we went to the Muster. I have to admit though, my heart wasn't in it. The cramping had returned and I was more worried about accidentally opening up a very different aperture to the one on my camera.
The announcer explained that Ty Williams, the footy player, would soon be parachuting in. I saw a photographer walking out to the landing zone to take photos and briefly considered explaining that I was a JCU journalism student hoping to get closer to the action. I then calculated the distance from the landing ground to the safety of the nearest toilet and decided against it. I wasn't wearing my brown pants and certainly had no intention of upstaging Mr Williams with a heart-stopping free-fall of my own.
For a nano-second, I even considered taking the ride in the crane to get a birds eye view of the crowd and the show grounds, but the same distance from toilet equation came into play, this time multiplied by a constricting harness and the fact that a crane driver, many metres below me would need to let me down, before I let myself down. The added danger, of course, was if the accompanying nausea got too much for me while dangling over the crowd. A family's day out could be ruined by an ugly incident along the lines of "Look Dad. Is it a bird or a plane?" "Neither son, it appears to be last night's garlic prawns and a couple of pints of Guinness".
So I just pottered about, taking some ordinary looking photos and cheering on Cyndi in the 4WD-pulling race. Oh, and to the bloke who started looking under his ute just after I walked by, your LPG tank wasn't leaking, that was me. Sorry.
I woke on Sunday morning feeling very seedy. Yes, I'd had a few drinkies the night before, but not enough to explain the way I was feeling. Little old ladies have annoyed me for years with their inability to describe what "squamy" felt like after I'd been called to treat them as a paramedic. After Sunday morning I think I have a pretty good idea of what squamy feels like.
It seems to sum up quite nicely the gurgling, churning, cramping, just-about-to-vomit-feeling I experienced. I can't say if weapons-grade farts are part of feeling squamy but they are a part of drinking Guinness, so I'm not sure whether I can officially put that down under the confirmed signs and symptoms of squamy. However, I can testify that Cyndi wasn't the least bit impressed with my swamp gas aroma and banned me from doing anymore, anywhere in her vicinity. In fact, a suburb away was probably still too close.
I rallied though. Cyndi dosed me up with her herbal remedies, and I eventually got my act together, sorted out my camera gear and off we went to the Muster. I have to admit though, my heart wasn't in it. The cramping had returned and I was more worried about accidentally opening up a very different aperture to the one on my camera.
The announcer explained that Ty Williams, the footy player, would soon be parachuting in. I saw a photographer walking out to the landing zone to take photos and briefly considered explaining that I was a JCU journalism student hoping to get closer to the action. I then calculated the distance from the landing ground to the safety of the nearest toilet and decided against it. I wasn't wearing my brown pants and certainly had no intention of upstaging Mr Williams with a heart-stopping free-fall of my own.
For a nano-second, I even considered taking the ride in the crane to get a birds eye view of the crowd and the show grounds, but the same distance from toilet equation came into play, this time multiplied by a constricting harness and the fact that a crane driver, many metres below me would need to let me down, before I let myself down. The added danger, of course, was if the accompanying nausea got too much for me while dangling over the crowd. A family's day out could be ruined by an ugly incident along the lines of "Look Dad. Is it a bird or a plane?" "Neither son, it appears to be last night's garlic prawns and a couple of pints of Guinness".
So I just pottered about, taking some ordinary looking photos and cheering on Cyndi in the 4WD-pulling race. Oh, and to the bloke who started looking under his ute just after I walked by, your LPG tank wasn't leaking, that was me. Sorry.
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