The Clan of the White Hand
Contemporary art: what a load of toss. There was a contemporary art festival here in Sydney for the past few weeks, with the Grand High Priest of Contemporary Nuttiness herself - Yoko Ono - spearheading the whole shebang. I don’t understand contemporary art at all, and I don’t think most people do either. As far as I can gather, if it’s something that’s a bit weird and features naked people, animals, coffins, opera singers and at least two bodily fluids, you can call it contemporary art.
Yoko Ono gave a lecture on contemporary art which was supposed to be the highlight of the festival. I’m not too sure what her Sydney lecture entailed, but I know her past lectures have included getting people up on stage to cut pieces of her clothes off. Then again, she’s kinda smart - people pay her money for her to get off on her kinky sex acts.
As an example of why contemporary art is ridiculous, I read in the newspaper (so it must be true) of a recent contemporary art exhibition overseas. This particular exhibit featured two men standing on a platform, urinating into a clay fountain. Everyone was standing around applauding because they thought it was such a work of genius. It eventuated that the two men were loonies and the actual art exhibit was just the fountain - it wasn’t supposed to have people pissing in it. The men were arrested - and people still thought it was all part of the exhibit. Everyone just thought they were witnessing contemporary art brilliance.
So go nuts - piss on things, wipe your vomit on a canvas, have sex with a dog - it’s all contemporary art and it’ll make you an artistic genius!
The other night in our bedroom, the lights were turned off when I put on my boxer shorts. They crackled with static, and I could actually see the static sparks jumping around. It was kinda groovy but I think Adam was a little worried by it. Especially when I started flapping the boxer shorts around on his hair, making them crackle and spark in his face.
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While we were flicking channels on TV, we came across a program on Channel 10 called Bright Ideas. They were running a story on how to protect your credit card details while shopping on the internet. I really loved how they portrayed computer hackers as men wearing balaclavas, typing furiously on their computer keyboards.
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I got “breakfast” at McDonalds:
Me: I’ll have the bacon and egg muffin meal thanks.
McMember of staff: Okay, that’s $3.25.
Me: (gives her the money)
McMember of staff: Thanks. Oh, I’ll get you some deodorant too.
Me: !?!
I thought she was making rude comments about my personal hygeine, but they were giving away free deodorant, apparently.
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Parappa the Rapper started work in my office this week. He’s a big fella, you wouldn’t want to mess with him. As you can probably tell he’s also a rapper. He told me the other week he had a ‘rap-off’ with the singer of 28 Days and beat him soundly. So now 28 Days are crap apparently. He isn’t a bad rapper though. (I’m calling him Parappa the Rapper because there’s this insane game called Parappa the Rapper on Playstation (or was it Nintendo?), a game based on this little dog who runs around and raps his head off. You have to be stoned to understand it).
Parappa the Rapper is of similar apperance to a maths teacher I once had in high school. This particular maths teacher of mine spent a suspiciously large proportion of the maths course teaching us about random numbers and probability. If you were aware of his enthusiasm for gambling, it would come as no surprise to discover that to put probability into practice, he used to teach us how to play roulette, poker and blackjack. Every Thursday our maths classroom would be turned into some sort of bizarre casino that used jellybeans for currency. I wonder if the education department ever caught him.
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Jen went to a marketing conference this week, and came back with a bag full of totally useless crap (they tend to give these away at marketing conferences). The pen that had a little bubble blower on the end amused me for hours, until I realised that for the past half hour while I’d been blowing bubbles, detergent had been dripping all over my pants. I tried dabbing at it with wet tissues - this didn’t get rid of the detergent stains, but it did create a nice dandruff-like effect on my pants. Jen told me to go to the kitchen and get a dishrag.
There were heaps of dishrags in the kitchen so I grabbed one and scrubbed away at my pants. It turned out the dishrag had detergent all over it, so it just added to the contemporary art exhibit that was my trousers. I gave up and pretended suspicious stains and tissue reminants clinging to your pants was in style.
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Cityrail, Cityrail, Cityrail… why did you turn the airconditioners up full on my train trip home - ON ONE OF THE COLDEST MAY NIGHTS IN SYDNEY’S RECORDED HISTORY?!
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I must say the new Deftones album ‘The White Pony’ is shaping up quite nicely. I think it’s out on the 20th of June. I’ve also ordered Pitchshifter’s newie from Chaosmusic. I think I buy too much stuff from Chaosmusic, because earlier this year they sent me their prospectus in case I was interested in buying some Chaosmusic shares.
I still listen to ‘Title of Record’, Filter’s most recent album every day - even though it was released last September. There’s just something about it that I keep returning to. However, just because I like the band, doesn’t mean I necessarily like their singer (Richard Patrick). To be honest, if I ever saw Richard Patrick at a record store appearance, I’d scream “Everybody out! NOW! Before his HEAD fills the room and crushes us ALL!”
The day Richard Patrick assumes humility will be the day I ride into hell on a chocolate horse.
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I’ve been reading some reviews of the movie Gladiator, and I’m noticing something that keeps popping up. Whenever a male reviewer writes about Gladiator, they can’t seem to stop writing about how ‘great’ Russell Crowe looks in a leather skirt. Is Russell the straight man’s man or something?
Wouldn’t it be good to see two Gladiator worlds collide?
Maximus: I shall set Rome free - bring on the gladiators!
Referee: Gladiators - READY! Challenger - READY!
Gladiators: (pose in lycra leotard outfits with their names embroided on them, holding up giant menacing pieces of foam rubber)
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While we’re talking about movies, who let Limp Bizkit record the title track for the Mission: Impossible 2 soundtrack? That’s the kind of thing left to groups trying to stage a musical comeback, isn’t it?
I think the best way to have a musical comeback is to do something like what Deborah Conway did over the past few years: go completely nuts. She just stopped combing her hair, started mumbling in her songs, generally went pretty downhill. Speaking of completely nuts, I hear Max Sharam is back in the country too. I’ll be buggered if I know how she got past immigration.
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Things To Never Say At Your Workplace When You’ve Stuffed Something Up #1:
‘I just assumed’. This is enivitably followed by the complimentary ‘in this business, you NEVER assume’ from your supervisor.
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I’ve noticed that so many people in Sydney are obsessed with career climbing. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with aspiring to getting a great job, but some people seem to job-hop every month or so. It’s ridiculous. I don’t even think these people have jobs at all, they just have careers. Personally, I’m happy to stick with where I’m working now and work my way up. Sure, I’m not getting ginormous amounts of money, but I enjoy myself and I’m happy with it.
I’ve learnt that the internet system at work picks up dirty words on your screen. If you’re looking at a page, apparently if there’s any sexually explicit words on it, a little warning window pops up and displays the company internet policies. Parappa the Rapper was looking up rap lyrics and was getting the warning windows a mile a minute. I’ve only ever recieved one warning window and I couldn’t figure out what it was from, until I realised it was probably from the name of the song I was downloading - ‘Detachable Penis’.
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Wednesday night was the Heater Mission night. Adam and I rendezvoused in the city so we could go and buy a heater, because it’s been so bloody cold over the past few weeks in Sydney. We walked around for ages and it seemed everywhere in the city had sold out of heaters.
Me: Well, that was all a bit of a waste of time.
Adam: Too right. All that work and still no heater.
Me: The worst thing is, we don’t have anybody to blame.
Adam: Personally, I’m blaming you.
During our travels in the city, we walked past a jazz club.
Me: (trying to see down stairs) Ahh, a jazz club.
Adam: It looks like a strip joint.
Me: It says that it’s a jazz club.
Adam: I bet if you pay the musicians enough money they’ll take their clothes off.
Me: Jazz strip clubs… now there’s an untapped market.
I bought some new shoelaces in the city for my work shoes. My current shoelaces haven’t been untied for at least a year and are getting a bit ragged, so I thought it was time for some new ones. The only problem is that the new shoelaces are 50% shorter than the old ones. I started lacing them into the shoe and I’d run out of lace halfway up the shoe. So now half the lace-holes on my shoes are empty and they almost look like women’s shoes. Adam suggested tying two shoelaces together, but that’s a bit of an Adam idea and I’ll just leave it at that.
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My car wouldn’t start on Thursday because it was so cold.
Me: I hope it’s not dead for good. We need the car to go to the supermarket and stuff.
Adam: I’ll just laugh if it’s dead. I will laugh very hard.
Me: Oh, it’ll probably start if we push it.
Adam: Ha! You haven’t got enough meat on you to even think about pushing your car!
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There’s a promotion running at the petrol station near here called Pop, Gulp and Go. It’s a deal where you get a pack of Pringles and a bottle of Coke. After eating some of the dodgier Pringles flavours (Fromage and Oignon, anyone?) I’m referring to the deal as Pop, Gulp and Blow.
(insert rude joke about popping, gulping and blowing here)
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Because Cityrail have been so crap lately, the government gave everyone in Sydney a fare-free day on public transport last Wednesday. Not only was it a fare-free day, it also appeared to be timetable-free. My train was late by 35 minutes.
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Adam had drunk a few after-work bourbons when he suddenly demanded of me:
Adam: Why do you have to wear those clothes to work?
Me: What, a suit and tie and stuff?
Adam: Yeah. I mean, I just wear whatever I want to my work.
Me: This is what’s expected of me. This is the office dress code.
Adam: Have you actually approached your manager about it?
Me: I would rather not approach my manager and ask him if I can wear tshirts and tracksuit pants.
Adam: But you should. You might be able to wear whatever you want, like how I do.
Me: I think not.
Adam: Seriously, you should. You wouldn’t have to buy any more of those expensive ties, and those expensive, er, you know, the expensive things you have to wear to work.
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On my way to work on Friday, I walked past a bicycle shop. I’ve noticed that most owners of bicycle stores are a bit potty. When I was involved with community radio, there used to be a guy who hosted a cycling show (I have no idea how he managed to talk for an hour each week about cycling). He also owned a bicycle store and was a bit nuts. I’d be in the middle of a radio broadcast and when I put a song on, the bicycle man would burst into the studio and do something like this:
Insane bicycle man: (waves slice of pizza around) Look at this! Look at this!
Me: It’s a piece of pizza.
Insane bicycle man: And do you know why it’s so special?
Me: Um… no?
Insane bicycle man: It contains ALL FOUR FOOD GROUPS IN THE ONE MEAL! (slices pizza through air as if it’s a sword)
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On Friday at work:
Me: (walks into room with a glass of water)
Mr Marketing: How many times do I have to tell you…
Me: Huh?
Mr Marketing: I don’t care if it’s a Friday, but please don’t drink gin at work.
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Most workplaces toilets have a wash basin area, then the main toilets area. The two areas are seperated by doors. I love it when I catch people trying to rush out of the wash basins area without washing their hands. They sort of stop mid-gallop out of the door, realise they’ve been caught, then get this look on their face like they’ve forgotten something really important but just can’t put their finger on what it is. Then a moment of revelation: of course! They ‘forgot’ to wash their hands! Then again, who wouldn’t: it’s merely a practice that’s been instilled into you by your parents since childhood.
Then there’s the crushed elevator people at work. Often you’ll be going up and down in an elevator at work, stopping at various floors. Sometimes you’ll stop on a floor where someone is walking towards the elevator, but they’re a great distance away. They’ll just keep casually walking along, shuffling through their papers. It’s quite safe to assume they’re not catching the elevator.
But when the elevator doors start to close they shriek, and their eyes widen. A hand goes flying out in front of them as if they possess some sort of magic forcefield that can reach out and prevent elevators from closing their doors. They lose control of their papers and drop a folder or two on the floor. In a final, heroic attempt to hitch a ride, they will throw themselves in between the closing elevator doors. Usually the elevator doors will slam themselves shut on the victim a few times before the dishevelled staff member stumbles into the elevator. They then glare around at everyone as if they’re responsible for the injuries they’ve just sustained.
I’ve been on training this week with Jen and Parappa the Rapper. The training is done at a special training centre. On our way to the training centre we noticed a building that had at least 50 people smoking on it’s veranda.
Me: Isn’t that a bit of a bad business image, having them all smoking up there?
Parappa the Rapper: It looks pretty shocking.
Me: What company is that?
Jen: I used to know someone who worked in that building, I think they make poker machines.
Me: Oh, so they’re all alcoholic gamblers anyway. That’s okay then.
We were talking about ethnic decents at work on Friday. I don’t know if non-Australians are familiar with the term ‘wog’ - after consulting with the nearest person at hand (who happened to be a friend of mine), ‘wog’ is best defined as a ‘person of ethnic origin, generally southern european or middle eastern’. It used to be a bit of an offensive term but it’s grown into something more affectionate.
Jen: I’m from Italy originally. My parents are from there. I’m a wog at heart.
Mr Marketing: Really? Me too. I’m from Macedonia. And the mail girl’s from overseas, so she’s a wog too.
Note: the mail girl is from the UK. She’s very British.
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It’s very cold here in Sydney at the moment. Here are the official Adam & Jeb Tips For Beating The Cold:
Adam has taken to sitting in a sleeping bag while he surfs the net.
I reckon electric blankets are dangerous, but oh man, that heat is so worth the risk.
Oh yeah, then there’s the Clan Of The White Hand. I went to hug Adam when I woke up one cold morning. When I put my hand on his chest he shrieked because it was so cold. My hand actually left a white imprint on his chest. I told him he’d been branded by the Clan Of The White Hand.
When it gets cold, I’ve now taken to chasing Adam around threatening to put my cold hands all over him, and branding him with the Clan Of The White Hand’s mark.
Me: The Clan Of The White Hand is out and hunting!
Adam: Ah, I’ve got a better clan.
Me: The Clan Of The White Hand is undefeatable!
Adam: I am now the leader of a new clan, a clan sure to defeat the Clan Of The White Hand…
Me: Oh?
Adam: Let me introduce you to… (dramatic pause) THE CLAN OF THE WARM ROOM.
Me: How crap. The Clan Of The White Hand shall crush you.
Adam: Nah, The Clan Of The Warm Room is brilliant. We’ve got an MSN community and everything.