HOW MY VOICE BROKE
or
BUT I NEVER WANTED TO BE A COMMENTATOR!
I'm 15 years old and am waiting by the mailbox to receive confirmation for my work experience placement. I've sent 17 letters to various architecture firms asking to take me under their wing for a week as a 'young man determined to become a professional architect when I complete high school.'
Yes, there you have it - I wanted to be an architect. I wanted to design massive houses with balustrades that reached to the heavens, strangely-angled roofs that ran rain off in eight directions, and enormous French Bay windows that gave the feeling of living inside a voyeur's paradise.
I wanted to be an architect for two reasons: first because I was good at drawing. As a kid I was always drawing. I'd buy charcoal sticks and sketch pads and draw whatever was in sight: landscapes, flowers, trees, birds, my hand, bowls of fruit and the like. I bought drawing magazines every week, studying the various ways to depict light and shadow, learning the different shades of pencil and how to use angles, pastels and charcoals.
The second reason I wanted to be an architect was because it was Mike Brady's profession. As a pre-teen I was in love with his eldest adopted daughter Marcia and I thought Mike Brady was the coolest cat in Sherwood Street (these were the days before the terrible permed hair period of later Brady Bunch episodes). Mike always had one of those document cylinders slung over his shoulder, he built miniature model houses and he always resigned to the sanctuary of his den. Actually, in hindsight, I wanted to be an architect like Mike Brady just so I too could have a den.
So why didn't I become an architect? Well, the first reason, which I didn't know at the time, was because you had to be good at maths. I stunk at maths. English, Literature, Economics, Politics, History - no problem. But stick me in front of a parabola, long division or the pi symbol and I was so dumb blondes would make jokes about me.
The second reason that prevented me from becoming an architect was destiny. I waited days by that mailbox and didn't receive a single reply. I didn't even get a 'no'. I got nothing. Nada. Zip. What are the chances? Seventeen architecture firms and NOT ONE wrote back.
I was gutted.
"Mum, what do I do?" I said dejectedly, downing a glass of Milo for afternoon tea. "There's only a week to go and I have nowhere to do work experience."
"What are your friends doing?
"Boring stuff like accounting or law offices. I think some guy is even going to work at a library!"
"Well, you have a good voice. Why don't you do radio?"
Huh? Radio? Was she serious? Her suggestion totally threw me. And since when did she think I had a good voice? I had a terrible voice! It was squeaky, too high pitched and raw.
"And do what?" I asked.
"Be an announcer or something," she said. "Just don't be a reporter. It's too dangerous. You get sent to cover wars and things like that. I don't want you getting blown up."
I really didn't want to do radio and spent that afternoon racking my brain as to what other options I had. Being a fireman is every boy's dream but that disappeared when I was about seven years old and burnt my knee on dad's lawnmower. I was good at debating and could be a barrister, but I didn't fancy wearing those ugly white wigs. I couldn't think of anything I really wanted to do besides be Mike Brady. My only option was to follow the saying that mother really does know best and try my luck with a radio station.
Mum wanted me to write to 3AW but if I was going to give radio a try I at least wanted to keep on the FM band. The only station I listened to with any consistency was Triple M and so it was that I wrote to them, addressing my letter to a woman named Deanne Sloane.
Two days later Deanne Sloane replied, accepting me for work experience. I still have her letter from 1990 tucked away in my special drawer along with the many other mementos documenting various life-changing events over the years.
I turned up at Triple M in Bank Street South Melbourne for my first day of work experience and realised something straight away: every woman who worked there was hot! From the promotional girls to those in traffic, sales and even the receptionist, radio was a haven for hotties.
Deanne Sloane greeted me with a warm smile and a handshake. She had long dark red hair with curls and dreamy eyes, and asked if there was anything in particular I'd like to do.
"I have no idea," I said with a shrug.
"Well let me think," she said, looking me up and down, examining me at the height of my geekiness with my hair perfectly parted to the left, wearing jeans, a denim jacket, shirt and a tie. "The news room can be fun. How about I put you in there with our journos and you can see what they do?"
The newsroom was a dingy little place hardly wide enough for two people to walk through side-by-side. To me it looked like the control room for a NASA shuttle launch with flashing lights, television screens, microphones and buttons everywhere.
Deanne introduced me to a journalist named Brian who looked me up and down without a smile. With his puffy eyes, pale complexion and unkempt sandy hair, he had a great look for radio.
"So you want to be a journalist?"
"I guess," I said. I still wanted to be an architect, although I doubted architecture firms attracted as many hot women as I'd already seen at Triple M.
"What do you think being a journalist is like?" he asked, testing my naivety.
"I don't know. You go out and get stories I suppose. Try to beat other journalists to the story. That sort of thing."
He laughed and shook his head. "Being a radio journalist is not like that at all. We don't wear peaked hats with 'Press' signs attached to them like some 1940s noir film. We don't go chasing stories and shoving microphones under people's noses wherever a story breaks. We use the wires, we use carts, we write slugs, and we get stuff sent down the line."
Huh? I had no idea what he was talking about. How the hell could you fit a cart in this tiny room? Where would the horse stand?
"Not what you had in mind, right?" he grinned.
Not exactly, but hey, I still wanted to design houses.
"Welcome to the glamorous world of radio news. Now if you really want to be a radio journalist, you have to work like one. We air our first news report at six in the morning. So tomorrow morning if you're serious about being a journalist why don't you come in here at half-past five and help us prepare the news?"
No wonder his eyes were puffier than Melanie Griffith's upper lip. Half-past five in the morning! Was he kidding? Did such a time exist? Someone had once told me about a thing called 'dawn' when the sun apparently rose over the horizon, but I had never actually seen one.
I'm sure architects didn't start work before sun up!
"You can also meet the guys from the breakfast show," he offered.
A huge smile crossed my face. I'd passed a picture of Jane Kennedy - the sole female on the breakfast show - in reception and had fallen instantly in love with her. I'd come in at half-past five the next morning just for the chance to meet her.
"Okay," I agreed, keeping my hidden agenda to myself. "I'll be here."
Sure enough at half-past five the next morning I was back in NASA headquarters in the thick of preparing the 'six o'clock'. Nicole Gunn helped me write a story that was read live-to-air, teaching me the basic of how to condense information into a Who, What, Where, When and How format. I sat side-by-side with Steve Speziale as he read the six o'clock news. I was introduced to the breakfast gang with whom I developed an instant rapport, in particular Rob Sitch, Santo Cilauro and Tom Gleisner. Tom and Santo had both attended my high school and been editors of the high school magazine I would go on to edit.
Then there was Jane Kennedy. If was Vladimir Nabokov, I'd write that she was the light of my life, fire of my loins. When she said hello I almost melted at the knees. When she kissed me on the cheek - in a moment reminisce of when Marcia Brady received a cheek kiss from Davey Jones - I swore I would never wash that cheek again. In my photo album of special shots that have punctuated various parts of my life, my photo with Jane Kennedy remains treasured above almost all.
From then on I floated on a dream for the rest of the week, not only for having met Jane Kennedy, but also for the sheer buzz I discovered working in radio. When Richard Stubbs let me press a button that sent a song across the Melbourne airwaves, I thought it was the coolest thing I'd ever done. When Eddie Maguire read on air a sports report I'd written, I thought I was a superstar. And when a 19-year-old Dannii Minogue came into the studio to do an interview, my teenage libido went into overdrive - she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever laid eyes on.
I never used to believe in destiny, but after that week of work experience how could I not believe in a force controlling my future? Had one of those architecture firms actually accepted me for work experience, I (possibly) would not have done the many amazing things I have in my life. I would not have met my closest friends, I would not have travelled the world and I would not have met so many incredible people along the way.
When my work experience week was over, all thoughts of becoming an architect had vanished completely. Eddie Maguire was my new Mike Brady. Jane Kennedy was my Marcia. All I wanted to do was be a journalist, write stories and talk on radio.
**
PRESS CLUB
or
PRIVATE SCHOOLS RUN BY CONSERVATIVE C*NTS ARE A BITCH!
I'm 16 years old and I've just landed the coolest gig in high school as editor of the school magazine. The magazine's name is Sursum Corda, which is Latin for Lift Up Your Heart - my school's motto. I could go into a spiel about the ridiculousness of a high school offering VCE courses in Ancient Greek and Latin - two DEAD languages - but I'll save it for another time. Right now I'm reminiscing about landing a job that transported me instantly from the realms of former-altar-boy-geekdom to the upper echelons of respect (said with Ali G-like intonation) and popularity. I went from being my high school's Putzie Webber to its Chaci Arcola; its Paul Pfeiffer to Kevin Arnold; its David Silver to its Dylan McKay… you get the picture.
Never one to do things by halves, I set out to create the biggest version of Sursum Corda ever put to print. Forget the 24-page, black-and-white rags of the past, my 1991 version would be a record 48 pages with a full colour front and back cover and enough advertising to cover all production costs with ample left over in the kitty to run a second edition.
As I began sourcing contributions and put my sales staff to work booking advertising, I set out to secure a reasonable printing quote within budget. For this job I hired the services of my good friend, David M., a smooth-talking kid of Italian heritage with greased back hair, a glimmer in his eye and a heaping of attitude backed up by natural genius. Picture Vinnie Barbarino meets Doogie Howser with a touch of Michael Corleone to boot and you'll understand David a little better.
Our target was a small company specialising in newsletters and brochures, the managing director of which - let's call him Ian - was an alumni of the school. Ian had been printing Sursum Corda for several years, and from what I could see of previous quotes he hadn't done my predecessors any great favours. If he thought he would pull one over David M. and myself he was in for a shock.
We hopped a train after school to visit Ian and disembarked a stop prior to our destination.
"What are we doing?" I asked David as he dashed down the platform and onto the main street.
"I just want to pop in here," he said, gesturing to a small printer's building. He disappeared through the front door like a phantom, only to re-emerge a minute later with a cunning grin on his face.
"Let's get out of here," he said, flinging his schoolbag over one shoulder.
"What happened? Did you get a quote?"
"Even better," he said, walking at a brisk pace. "I got this."
He plucked a business card out of trouser pocket and waved it in front of my face.
"What do we need that for?" I asked, unsure of what he was plotting.
"You'll see," he said, and stuffed the card back inside his pocket.
Ian's printing company was a dive. We sat in reception for twenty minutes flicking through lame newsletters and suffering the stench of coffee and chemicals accompanied by the constant hum of a printing press.
The first thing I noticed about Ian was that he was bald. It wasn't as if his crown was bald and he had elected to shave the sides of his head to be fashionable, he was genuinely well and truly bald. His polished dome shone under the reception light as he shook our hands firmly.
"So boys, it's that time of the year again to print the Sursum Corda is it? Come on through and let's see what we can work out."
Ian's office was small and cramped. Papers were strewn across his desk and his computer made a faint buzzing sound. He took a seat and left us standing, leaned back in his chair and crosses his hands over his stomach.
"You know I've been printing the Sursum Corda for a few years."
"We want to make this year's the best one ever," I said, still unsure of David's game plan.
"What do you have in mind? If it's the same old twenty-four pager black and white job with a two-colour cover, I'll give you the same price I did it for last year."
I opened my mouth to speak but was beaten to it by David. He pulled up a seat opposite Ian, placed his schoolbag at his feet, crossed his left leg over his right and put his plan into motion.
"This year we're doing things a little differently. What we want to do is a 48-page magazine on gloss stock, one hundred grams, A2 art. The cover will be two hundred grams, A2 board with a UV varnish. We're looking at printing one thousand copies."
Ian was shocked. His eyebrows flew up so quickly they almost jumped off his head.
"You know your stuff. That's a professional quality magazine you're talking about. Let's see what I can do."
He scribbled a figure on a piece of paper and handed it across the desk. My jaw dropped. It was way out of my budget.
"That's too much for us," I said.
"Well son, that's the best I can do for you. Because I'm an old boy I've knocked off a few dollars here and there, but that's the cheapest you'll get it for."
I opened my mouth to speak again when David held up his hand. He was the maestro and his symphony was about to reach its crescendo.
He dipped into his trouser pocket and pulled out the business card he had collected earlier.
"We visited these people before we came here. They've quoted us a lot less than you. Really, the only reason we're here is because you're a past student."
Ian studied the business card and leaned forward, eyeing David coolly. "You two boys think you're a couple of wheeler dealers, do you? You trying to play hardball with me?"
By now my underwear had turned a dark shade of brown, but David kept his composure. "We're not trying to hardball anyone, but I will say this. Sursum Corda comes out four times a year. In the past your average quote has been (I can't remember the exact amount). Multiply that by four and you're making x amount of dollars a year. Multiply that by the number of years you've printed this magazine and that's a sizeable chunk of income. If we don't get a better figure than this, we'll take the magazine elsewhere and chances are Sursum Corda will never be printed here again."
I couldn't believe what I had just heard, and by the stunned mouth-agape look on his face Ian couldn't believe it either. David was right, however. Ian's company was small time and it relied on consistent jobs like this.
He scribbled another figure on a sheet of paper and passed it across.
"That's the best I can do."
I breathed a sigh of relief. We could definitely cover the new figure with advertising and projected sales.
"We can do that," said David. He shook Ian's hand, stood up and slung his schoolbag over his shoulder. "We'll have everything to you in one month."
Two days shy of a month I handed Ian the copy for the largest edition of Sursum Corda ever assembled. When the boxes of magazines were delivered to our tiny basement office a few days later I eagerly tore them open and marvelled at the beauty of my production.
If there was one striking feature of the magazine it was the front cover artwork, designed by my friend and associate editor, Chris S. We had thought long and hard about what to feature on the front cover before I realised that we should do what every other successful magazine does - use pictures of famous people.
"What do you mean by famous people?" asked Chris. "We can't go putting celebrities on the cover, only stuff to do with the school."
"Exactly," I smiled. "We have famous people right here in school we can use to attract attention."
Chris stared at me dumbfounded. He still hadn't cottoned on to my idea.
"Students and teachers, all the popular ones. We put their faces on the cover. We use the prefects, the school captain, captain of the First Eleven, the lady who runs the tuck shop, the Jesuit priests. They're the faces people want to see and read about. They're our celebrities."
Now Chris realised what I was getting at and set about creating an unforgettable work of art. He used the album cover from The Beatles Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and replaced the faces of Marilyn Monroe, Sri Yukteswar Giri, Mae West, Edgar Allen Poe, Fred Astaire, Bob Dylan, Oscar Wilde and company with faces of teachers and students. My face was placed in the gap between H.G. Wells, Sri Paramahansa Yagananda, Lewis Carroll and T.E. Lawrence, and even the famous Tuck Shop Lady featured in place of Fred Astaire.
About four hundred copies of Sursum Corda were sold on that first day in the precious few hours of selling time we received before my high school's Gestapo stepped in.
Chris and I were summoned to the office of the school Vice Principal Mr E, a pompous man who wore a black cape during school assembly, which led me to believe he either had a penchant for Batman or - as I suspect - was moonlighting as Principal and Sovereign Leader Supreme on his own planet.
I've never felt more nervous or uncomfortable in my life than sitting in Mr E's office and feeling his steely gaze on me. He looked at me like I was an animal - no, even worse, like I was a log of faeces defecated from an animal.
"Disgusting, just disgusting," he repeated, flicking through a copy of Sursum Corda.
Mr E had taken offence to some of the edgy humour in the magazine's content, including publication of a poem describing someone eating a zucchini though it sounded like a description of getting a head job. I didn't think it was a big deal. Sursum Corda was a magazine written by teenagers, for teenagers in the real world of the 1990s - not some 1950s television show starring Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz.
"This is smut. Pure smut."
I tried not to laugh. I had never heard the word 'smut' before. I didn't think such a word existed.
"Well, what do you have to say about this?"
"About what sir?" I shrugged. "We ran it past Mrs T."
Mrs T was the teacher assigned to officially look over Sursum Corda before it went to print. I had left all the proofs in her office to check and had received a clean bill of health. I'm guessing, however, that Mrs T probably didn't check them over at all. Apparently she had gone to Mr E in tears claiming I had 'sneaked the proofs' past her and that she had never approved more than half the pages in the magazine. That, of course, was rubbish and for many years I despised that woman for her wicked lies and secretly prayed that she would fall into a vat of boiling oil. (What? Too harsh?)
"Mrs T says she never saw these proofs," said Mr E. "She would never have approved any of this."
"Well she's lying," I said. If Mr E's eyes could have shot bullets, I would have taken more hits than Tony Montana right there and then. The world isn't yours in a private Jesuit high school, especially when you rub the powerbrokers the wrong way.
"I'd be very careful what you boys say right now or your futures could be very short lived."
Our futures short lived? Huh? Was Batman threatening us? Was he talking about our scholastic futures or our editing futures? I really detest it when people speak in riddles.
"I want all remaining copies of the magazine brought to my office immediately. They will all be destroyed."
Hold on: was this 1991 high school or 1933 Bebelplatz?
"And you will apologise to Ian. I can't believe you threatened him and bargained price with a former student of this school."
Huh? Now Batman was angry with David and I for brokering a better price? What sort of young professionals was this school trying to produce?
Chris and I exited in silence. We reached our basement office and I tore open one of the boxes of magazines.
"What are you doing?" Chris asked.
"Taking a few souvenirs," I said, grabbing a heap of copies. "I worked hard on this and I'm proud of it, and the feedback we've received has been great. He can shred all the magazines but at least I did it and he's not shredding these ones."
When word of the magazine's death reached the student body I went from popular to legendary. Suddenly I was the bad boy rogue editor who had shoved it up The Man and wreaked havoc on the institution.
Word of the magazine's recall spread through other private schools too and the four hundred copies that had been sold became instant collector's items that every student at every private school in a ten kilometre radius wanted to get their hands on.
To this day I still have one copy left of Sursum Corda. I heard the magazine was banned for five years following my editorship, and that even today stories are told in whispered lunchtime huddles about the Sursum Corda of 1991 like some urban legend. In some versions of the story I was expelled and went on to become a famous magazine editor. In other versions of the story several boxes of magazines were hidden away beneath our musky basement office just waiting to be uncovered by some high school Indiana Jones from the future.
The entire Sursum Corda experience changed me forever. My friends who have known me since primary school often wonder where I went from being wholesome, well-mannered, clean-mouthed, white halo altar boy to independent, straight-talking, foul-mouthed (yet still well-mannered) adult. The answer is this one episode in my life. What happened that day could have broken my spirit, pushed me back down into the pit of average from where I felt I had come, but my resolve was strong. Mr E shredding my magazine didn't break me; it became the catalyst for me to do everything I would set my mind to in the future.
**