My Documents/Feature Journalism/Celebrity Interviews/Templates....

Contents of My Documents/Feature Journalism/Celebrity Interviews/Templates folder.

Rolling Stone.doc

My heart is pumping as I climb the fifteen stairs leading off the crowded New York street into the chic loft apartment. This interview has been months in the making, rescheduled twice, changed venues three times, and now I'm late.

XXXXX's publicist ushers me into a minimalist living space scattered with magazines and empty coffee cups.
"You were late so XXXXX ducked out for a cigarette. He/She will be back in five minutes or so," the publicist says, eyeing me coldly over his/her red rimmed Gucci/Oliver Peoples/Valentino glasses.

I mutter a suitably humiliating apology and quickly take stock of the magazines that lie around the angular leather couch I'm sitting on. Vanity Fair, a couple of Who Weeklies and, surprisingly, a copy of November's Wine Investor.

XXXXX casually strolls in wearing a casually thrown together ensemble, and mutters "Hi, sorry to keep you." Our eyes meet for a second, before he/she puts on his/her sunglasses. In that brief second I get a first hand taste of the artist's legendary intensity. He/she seems bigger/smaller in person, and I am surprised by how laidback/uptight he/she seems. It probably doesn't help that I'm as nervous as hell....


The Brag.doc

You haven't been anywhere lately unless you've heard XXXXX's latest club-breaker "XXXXXX". Following up on his/her/their first release "XXXXX", the boys/girls/guy/girl are back again proving that punk/indie/house/breaks/electro/funk is not dead/back with a vengeance. We caught up with him/her/them last week just before he/she/they went on stage at The V Festival/Goodvibes/Big Day Out/Field Day/Candy's/The Metro/Oxford Arts Factory.

So, how does it feel to be back in Australia/Sydney/Insert Festival name?
Did you feel a lot of X to Y after Z?
What are your favourite kind of gigs?
Your look is so cool. What is the secret to a great outfit?
Your new album is great. (Note: not a question. Possibly revise.)
Do you like being in a band/touring?
How much do you love Sydney/fans/80s clothes/street press?

SMH.com

XXXXX believes (something controversial here).
Never afraid to X or Y, XXXXX has been pushing boundaries/breaking the envelope/crossing barriers for (Y where Y>15 years) now.
From the much-publicised drug habit/break up/divorce to his/her/their triumphant return, this/these troubador/lyrical poet/quirky group/rock renegade(s) have learned that the past is the past/music is the X that Y/growth is eternal.
Drawing on such disparate influences as The Beatles. Joy Division, Kraftwerk, Muddy Waters and, of course, Jeff Buckley (DO NOT CHANGE), their/his/her sound has evolved, just as they/he/she has over the years.

Online magazine.doc

Oh.My.God. If you haven't heard him/her/these guys yet, you aren't anybody. After producing for the last five years for names like A-Love, Dizzee Rascal, Lily Allen and Kanye (ONLY CHANGE IF NECESSARY) XXXXX has FINALLY put out his/her own album, featuring the awesome track YYYYYY.
The first time I heard this song I thought I was listening to Akon/Daft Punk on speed. With bass as smooth as chocolate coated velvet and beats as dirrrrty as socks at Splendour, this track blew my mind. BLEW.MY.MIND.
I had to instantly call my bff to tell her to turn on the radio and together we rocked out on opposite sides of the city (ie Darlinghurst and Surry Hills).
I can't believe it's taken him/her/them so long to finally do this. The film clip is directed by YYYYY who was the genius behind ZZZZZZZ's new clip for QQQQQQQ. Check it out here, but be warned, watching this clip at work could get your fired for shakin' that thing too hard!! (Embed Youtube link here).

What did he say back?...

Girl: You're back! How was Jonno?

Guy: Yeah, good. It was pretty good.

Girl: More information please.

Guy: Ummm... we fished a bit. Went to the pub. I had the seafood basket, it was ok. Stuff like that.

Girl: Did you say hi to him for me? And to Julia?

Guy: Yeah... yeah I did.

Girl: And?

Guy: Ummm... and?

Girl: Did he say hi back?

Guy: Yeah. He looked at the horizon for about 20 seconds after I told him hi from you. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and without looking back from the horizon, he said, all huskily, "tell her I say hi back".

Girl: Really?

Guy: No.

It's only words, and words are all I have...

People who use the term "amazing" are people worth emulating. Some people can have amazing coffee in the morning. Their mornings consist of great surprise or sudden wonder. These are strong feelings. Most people's mornings consist of mild irritation and slightly sticky spit. At worst, amazed people are caused great wonder and astonishment at the breakfast table, although a few years ago they could also have been bewildered or perplexed, so thank Goodness they don't live in those times any more. These people can go to live music venues with tickets they bought some months ago to see a band they already know and still walk away with a sense of inspiration, awe and wonder. Truly these people know the stuff that living, real living, is made of.

At the same time I pity people who find things awesome. To be struck dumb with reverence, admiration and fear merely by the experience of watching a film must make life hard. To find someone's car grand, sublime, or extremely powerful must make it difficult to get through the day. If only they could find a way to be amazed instead of awestruck by everyday occurrences they would be happier. But perhaps we can learn something from the humility of these people. Perhaps they see the pure beauty of the simplest parts of the universe and recognise their own place in it. But what an awful burden to bear, when the rest of us can happily kid ourselves that we are important and that a movie might be entertaining, or a car merely a method of transportation.

After understanding that people who regularly use the term "awesome" are really people with a sixth sense about their surroundings, it is easy to spot a sub-category of these enlightened individuals in which the realisation of one's place in the cosmos has mutated into a debilitating sense of insignificance. You can easily identify and reach out to these people by paying particular attention to those who use the term "just". When someone says to you "I'm just a delivery driver" you must instantly start listing the other things they are to them, to widen their perspective on their own lives. Tell them they are not "just" a delivery driver, merely a transporter of goods, only a minion to the exclusion of all other descriptors or identifying labels. Tell them they are also sons, daughters, brothers, footballers, phone-call makers... anything. Together we really can help these people.

But not all people who use "just" are humble. Others, more egocentric and cruel, will apply this explosive term to others. The next time you hear someone say "she's just a bitch", walk away, but not before you remind them that she is also any number of other things (start with human, then get more specific). Don't let these people infect you with their arrogance. Remember, people who see others one-dimensionally are often those capable of the most extreme acts. You can be sure that the senior citizen in his car thought that the Delezio family were "just pedestrians".

Language is a powerful way of forming a world view. By carefully selecting our adverbs and our adjectives we can change the way we, and hopefully others less linguistically vigilant than ourselves, view and interact with the world and the people we live on and with.

Thank you

The Circumstances Christmas Special...

The holly, jolly music drifted across the snow covered field. Every now and then whoops of enjoyment could be heard over the music, punctuated occasionally by the odd breaking glass or the sound of a body hitting the floor. The party was basically going off.

Outside things were far less merry. Rudolph took a long, dejected drag from his cigarette and stared at the misty horizon. It isn't easy for a reindeer to smoke a cigarette, but Rudolph had taught himself because, hey, he was a superstar now and could do what he liked. Rudolph grimaced each time the music got louder or the sound of his colleagues' shrieking laughter travelled across the snow to him. He leant heavily against a tree to support himself, weighed down by the six or seven highballs he'd knocked back the moment he turned up.

It was the North Pole Christmas party. December 23. One night before the big show.

"Hey... Rudybaby! Come back in, we're about to have the pinata," Blitzen called from the brightly lit doorway of the barn.

Rudolph hated Blitzen the most. Even though he was successful now, he would never forget how they had all treated him when he first arrived. Blitzen especially. He had woken after his second night in the barn to find his bright red nose painted yellow, and all his things thrown out into the snow. Blitzen hadn't even tried to pretend he hadn't done it.

Rudolph crushed out his cigarette and turned back toward the barn. He shivered, a little from the cold and a little from disgust. As he stepped through the doorway the party paused as everyone in the room sent up a huge cheer celebrating his return. Rudolph just nodded and headed towards his customary table in the darkest corner of the barn. The party raged on, the music blared and the party lights flickered on and off in an orgasm of colour. Rudolph's now not-so-bright red nose smouldered angrily in dim half-light.

Some things are better left...

There are a lot of things that get left unsaid or unexplored that would undoubtedly be extremely interesting conversation pieces or philosophical points of departure if only we were brave enough to discuss them. They are the things that lurk below the surface of our public lives like Sunday surcharge fine print on a laminated Willoughby Road menu.

Everybody has an idea of what I'm talking about. Those small feelings you get, often on a Sunday afternoon after being presented with a bill 25% higher than you expected, that make you secretly ashamed not just because you thought them, but also because, having thought them, you tend to wallow in them. Often with no tangible beginning, they get drawn out to preposterous lengths as self-indulgence and narcissism take hold.

These flights of fancy may just begin with imagining how bad it would be if something awful was to happen to your significant other/family/friend/pet/treasured trading card. Quickly this train of thought derails into thinking about how sad you'd be, and how much attention people would pay you as a result of the terrible tragedy. You imagine how stoic you'd be. Only your closest friends would realise how torn up inside you were. They'd have to explain to people at parties why you had the thousand-yard stare. You imagine the respect these people would give you when they heard the bad news, saying to each other: "He/she is taking it so well." You imagine walks in parks that don't even exist, and how your inner turmoil would be sharply at odds with the vitality of life around you. You imagine Bittersweet Symphony playing in the background as you watch the ducks move effortlessly across the glassy still water of the pond. Your perspective would be amazing. No one else would realise that the ducks were a poignant symbol that life goes on no matter what. You return to the office job you don't even have much earlier than your colleagues expect and turn in fantastic work with a shrug that says: "Nothing really matters anymore, but I can deal."

But we very rarely talk about these feelings. We talk about the silly dreams we have or how annoying the girl at the check out was today because she said "youse".

We don't mention these thoughts because we just can't take the risk that, although we feel pretty well-adjusted, we are not normal. We worry that divulging these little secrets to others will expose that under our reasonably normal facades we are, in fact, cripplingly and malevolently selfish.

But we aren't. Everyone thinks this way from time to time. We should discuss them. After all, they're quite funny (provided you aren't the person killed in the plane/car/rotunda accident). Openly discussing these foibles could bring us all closer together, by showing us that deep down, we all star in our own movies, and all secretly want them to be dramatic and brimming with pathos.

As I write this, I realise that there is a second category of information we all keep to ourselves. These are those stories or interesting facts we don't pass on because we are ashamed to reveal the source. I'd give an example, but I can't because I heard it at a Young Liberals function.

Justin has few friends, but many laughs...

Justin prided himself on his ability to see a good joke coming. Right now he was watching one approach at a painfully slow speed. He had just finished his half-hourly smh.com.au review. Dr Brendan Nelson had been elected as the new Liberal Party leader. To Justin, this news (hidden between a pic story on David Beckham [he's so down to earth!] and a breaking news blurb about a Chinese man cutting off his own penis to win an argument with his wife "Penis chop: Husband has last word") was a Stuart MacGill full toss.

Like a MacGill full toss, the joke opportunity was not going to arrive quickly, but when it did it was a guaranteed six runs. Probably straight into the M.A. Noble. A fat bloke would probably catch it in one hand without standing up or dropping his pie, his beer or his train of thought. The joke wrote itself.

Justin knew that a good joke needed immaculate preparation and perfect timing. Too many good jokes were ruined because people blurted them out too early, held on to them too long, or messed up their research and turned a potential laugh-riot into a crushing faux pas.

"What is the most popular hors d'oeuvre in Far North Queensland?"
"What?"
"Paul Hogan!"
"I think you mean Steve Irwin mate."

Sad, Justin thought. He was determined not to waste this opportunity. What the joke required was this: the Coalition would have to win back government in 2010. Brendan Nelson would be sworn in as Prime Minister. Then, Justin would be able to say, probably at a dinner party, something intimate, so all attention would be focused on him: "He used to be my GP. It wasn't enough to have me by the balls, now he's got the whole country by the Jatz crackers (pause for riotous laughter)!"

Could probably do with a rewording, Justin thought. Oh well, I've got three years to work on it. Maybe I should also look at turning leftie. The joke would probably go down better in Newtown than Point Piper. Justin wondered whether he should find his old prescription signed by Dr Nelson in case someone at the party was aggressively drunk and questioned his integrity.

Justin felt contentedly impatient. It was like a swingers party. He'd tossed his keys into the bowl, and now it was just a matter of time. He made a note in a small pocket diary he kept for such occasions, grabbed his keys, and marched out the front door towards 2010.

Dinner, drinks, and the end of time...

Paul picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts list. Finding the number took a couple of seconds, and he hesitated for another three before he pressed the button with the green phone receiver stamped on it. His every action was of monumental importance. He was acting against the wishes of the universe. Every move he made pushed the cosmos further and further out of balance.

The coin he'd tossed had rolled under the couch. Paul was not that interested in meeting Joanne tonight, but he wasn't against it enough to bother crawling under the couch. Finding the coin had been about as much effort as he was willing to put in. He was bored and feeling a little sorry for himself that night, the kind of mood brought on by a Sunday spent on the couch in pyjamas, or a Stanley Kubrick film, or both. He decided to just call Joanne and go to dinner. He was sick of being inside.

Underneath the couch, Queen Elizabeth's profile stared blankly up towards the universe (or at least that part of it that encompassed the thin black fabric stretched across the underside of the couch). As the universe had planned, Paul had tossed heads. Heads he didn't, tails he did. By not checking the coin, by being unable to perform the simple task of throwing a coin in the air without making a hash of it, Paul had set events in motion that he, and the universe, were powerless to stop. (The universe, although powerful, is only able to influence events up to a certain point. Usually this works out, but tonight the universe had gotten sloppy, and was kicking itself. The universe remembered the day Paul had chosen the floor covering for his new flat. Instead of pushing him towards carpet, a surface known for its coin-retaining traits, the universe had been offering God some unsolicited advice as He made some slight adjustments to one of its malfunctioning galaxies in the Gamma-Epsilon 76 quadrant.)

As the universe brooded, Paul met Joanne at a small Thai place in Newtown that had received a favourable review in the Herald that week. He was surprised how good she looked. They sat down and ordered, and apart from a momentary shiver as she mispronounced tofu "toffee", Paul managed to hold a pleasant, interesting conversation until the restaurant had emptied and the effeminate waiter began rudely stacking chairs atop the tables around them. Paul's expectations had been low, but the evening had been thoroughly enjoyable, and he sensed a certain chemistry developing between him and Joanne. Paul congratulated himself for making the effort, in the same way he had after he finally followed up a friend's offer of Sydney Kings tickets.

Outside the restaurant, the universe registered its displeasure by turning on a dreary, icy rainshower. Helpless to stop itself unravelling, the universe had to content itself by making the sky rumble and crackle with lightning and thunder. Depite the storm's awe-inspiring power, the universe was really just placing its figurative head in its metaphorical hands in a pose much like the one struck on February 26, 1995, by the Barings Bank human resources manager who hired Nick Leeson.