Art: Now With More Seagulls

I hate art.  Ok, I don’t actually hate art, but I usually find it incredibly boring.  Yeah, it’s fine to walk around a museum once in a while, but I can’t stop and stare at every painting, and usually they all look the same to me anyway.  How many different portraits of Jesus can there be?  And that abstract art?  I just go cross-eyed.

Modern art.  Don’t even get me started on modern art.  You can go to the junkyard, grab a broken-in-half used toilet bowl, through a pint of neon paint on it, put it in a gallery, call it art, and someone will actually buy it for an obscene amount of money.  WTF?

So, I was skeptical about the Biennale.  The Biennale is a bi-annual arts festival here in Sydney.  The main portion of it is held on Cockatoo Island which sits pleasantly right in the middle of Sydney Harbour.  The island contains old military barracks, warehouses, a few old homes, and a variety of other industrial type buildings.  I had heard good things about the Biennale, and about Cockatoo Island, so I thought I’d venture to check it out, despite the art, since it would be my last chance for two years.

So, my housemate Mayra, her co-worker Andri, and I took the free ferry out there one Sunday afternoon in June (yes, I’m way behind and this blog is no longer chronological – what’s it to you?)  What we found was… actually pretty frickin’ sweet.

The art was… crazy!  And I actually liked the art aspect of it.  There were a small handful of paintings and sculptures, but most was installation art or video art.  The venue was great:  giant art pieces in big warehouses, videos set up in barracks, paintings in old military homes, and so on and so forth.  The island had tunnels and cliffs and all sorts of other fun scenery.  I kept thinking:  “This would be an amazing place to play hide and go seek.”

There was one thing I wasn’t such a huge fan of:  the seagulls.  If there’s one thing I hate more than children, it’s seagulls.  Heinous little creatures.  They were swarming everywhere and loud about it.  Cockatoo Island – I think not.  That’s a misnomer.  It should be Seagull Island.  That way we’d know to nuke it first.

And now, without further ado, some art.  Starting with:  me surrounded by space age colanders hanging from the ceiling… science fiction?  Almost.  Making me hungry for spaghetti?  Definitely.

Cockatoo Island looks like a scary old prison.  Reminds me of Shutter Island.  Eeek!

More of Cockatoo Island.

Art that lets you walk on the rooftops.  Mayra is playing the role of Mary Poppins and Andri is the chimney sweep.

Sad Mayra does not like the fog machine art.

You’ve heard of soap on a rope?  Well, this was meat on a chain.  To be precise, it was a video of a well-dressed Spanish dude tap-dancing while juggling meat that was attached to the end of chains, while hungry rabid dogs barked all around trying to get at the meat.

360 degrees of art surrounding us.  Medusa and her feminist army on treadmills.  Right.

It’s a bird!  It’s a plane!  No – it’s a car exploding.  I knew never to buy a Chevrolet.

My Encounter with George the Spider

For months, all I heard about Australia was how scary the critters are:  snakes, sharks, crocodiles, jellyfish, and of course, spiders.  My housemates told me that the big spiders – the ones the size of a human hand - had been found in the house a few times, especially after a good rain.  But, 6+ months and many a rain later, I still hadn’t encountered a spider.  I was starting to believe it was all made up.

Until last night.

I had gone to bed around 11:00pm as usual, but as I was drifting off to sleep, I realized that I needed to use the bathroom.  So, I got up and wandered down the hall into the bathroom, where I proceeded to do my business.  I was sitting there on the toilet, making a #2, when a sudden movement caught my eye.  I didn’t have my glasses on, and it was hard to see what was moving on our dark brown tiles, but after about two or three seconds, I realized what it was.

It was a spider.

A big… HAIRY… spider.

And it was about two feet away from me.

FUCK.

What would you do if you were taking a dump and a giant spider popped in to say hi?  I really didn’t know what to do.  My first instinct was just to spray the crap out of it with whatever chemical would cause it harm.  Unfortunately, the spider was strategically positioned between me and the shelf with the cleaning supplies, so that was out.  I jumped off the toilet – wearing nothing but a t-shirt, flip-flops, and my boxer shorts down to my knees.  I grabbed our hand towel and threw it at the dang thing, but that little shit was fast and I totally missed it.  Then, I kicked our bath mat in its direction, but it sought refuge behind the toilet.  Now, I was in a corner with nowhere to go.  I grabbed the only weapon in sight that I could find:  our 200g can of Air Wick 4 in 1 Premium Fragrance & Odor Neutralizer.

Because nothing screams death to spiders like a vanilla-scented air freshener.

Nevertheless, I sprayed that spider until it ran into our shower.  Enough was enough – fuck it.  There was no way I was going to try to find that thing in the curtain or in the maze of shampoo bottles that we have.  I cleaned myself up real fast, quickly washed my hands, ran back to my room, and shut the door behind me – closing myself off from the horrors of the bathroom.

I spent half the night awake worrying about how the hell I was going to shower and shave in the morning.  When 7am rolled around and my alarm went off, I decided it was best to warn Mayra about our unwanted visitor.  She uses the bathroom first in the morning and I didn’t want her to have the shock of a lifetime.  Still partially afraid to leave my room, I decided to communicate with Mayra via text message:

7:02 AM

Me:  FYI big scary spider in bathroom last night.

Mayra:  Oh no.. Thanks

Me:  wanna look for it together now?

7:15 AM

Mayra:  I saw it, it’s in the corner of the step next to the door but it looks dead!

Me:  Oh god.  Maybe I’ll get the roach spray and confirm….

Mayra:  Haha do u need help?

Me:  Yes :(

So I ran downstairs, grabbed the roach spray out of the kitchen, and met Mayra in the bathroom.  The spider was lying motionless in the corner.  It was only about 2.5 to 3 inches in diameter, which is not that bad for Australia, but still the largest spider I’ve ever seen by far.  That means it was probably a juvenile, and we’re also sure it was probably a juvenile because it didn’t jump when I saw it.  Oh, did I mention that the spiders here can jump SEVERAL FEET?  Luckily I had already shit, because if I had seen a spider jump through the air, I would’ve shit on the spot.

So, I sprayed the crap out of the spider with the roach spray, and it began to move – very slowly.  I think the vanilla air freshener may have actually had some effect on the spider the night before.  Mayra and I were both too afraid to smash the spider – fearful that it would move and touch us before we could get it, so I ran down the hall and grabbed the one tool I knew would be a surefire way of getting rid of this creature without having to get too close to it.  I came back armed with our vacuum cleaner.

Oh yes, I brought in the big guns.  I sucked it up, and then Mayra and I put one of the attachments on the end so that it couldn’t crawl back out.

Problem solved.  Crisis averted.  I did a thorough check of the bathroom before I locked myself in there for my morning shower.  I’m now completely paranoid to use the bathroom, and probably will be for weeks.  Of all times for a spider to come along… right when I’m my most vulnerable position.

In an effort to speed up the recovery process, I stopped by our local grocery store on the way home from work and picked up some spider spray.  It’s a slight comfort.  I’ve also decided to name this spider and any future spider that may come along.  So, what do you call the little shit of a spider which terrorizes you in the bathroom and then torments your mind for weeks after?

I've posthumously named it George W. Bush - just to add a greater sense of evil to it.

I believe the name Newt Gingrich is next on the list.

Jonathan's Chauffeur

A few weeks ago, I was up in St Ives visiting my friend Jonathan.  St Ives is a suburb of Sydney and is located approximately half way between East Jesus and BFE.  While Jonathan was driving me around, we were talking about how I was a bit afraid to drive in Australia since everything is backward.  Then we devised a plan:  I’d come up to St Ives one weekend and drive around in the quiet suburbs during the day.  That would be a good plan to ease me into Aussie driving.

Well, that plan went to shit last night.

Jonathan and I were at Katzy’s – a kosher restaurant in Bondi – enjoying some matzo ball soup (I was having a craving), and as we drove away, I mentioned our plan to drive one day in St Ives.  Well, apparently Jonathan was tired of driving that day, so he pulled the car over on a side street and told me to switch.  Did I mention it was nighttime?  Well, it was.  And did I mention it had been raining and the roads were totally wet?  Well, it had been, and they were.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!

So, I hopped behind the wheel.  Jonathan was trying to coach me on how to drive – telling me to use my signals and put the car in drive.  Yes, I know.  I don’t need instruction.  I’ve been driving a lot longer than he has.  Just please tell me if I turn into oncoming traffic, thanks.

Having the steering wheel on the right side of the car really messes with your mind, even more than having the flow of traffic reversed.  At least I know to follow the cars in front of me, so it would be difficult to turn into oncoming traffic, but when the wheel is on the right, you find yourself drifting to the left – trying to position yourself in the lane where you normally are used to sitting.  Jonathan kept telling me to keep to the right… one time… two times… twenty times…  I think he was overreacting a bit, but I suppose I would overreact too if the voices in my head were repeating “Why did you give this Yank the wheel?  Are you fucking nuts?”

Besides, Jonathan’s tiny Volkswagen is like a Happy Meal toy compared to my old Nissan Pathfinder.  I probably had plenty of room to roam in the lane.

The end result… I did it.  No crashes.  No turning into oncoming traffic.  No panic attacks.  Well, not for me at least.  Jonathan was a different story.  Whatever.  It was his idea.  And he now he has himself a chauffeur.

Fail. Massive Fail. Win.

Fosters:  Australian for beer.

They way they advertise it in the States, you’d expect the rivers to be flowing with the stuff here in Australia.  But you know what?  You’ll be hard pressed to find Foster’s at any self-respecting bar in Australia.  Foster’s is sort of a joke here.  There are heaps of other Aussie brews, but Fosters is primarily an export.  Who knew?  I think that’s a FAIL.

Outback Steakhouse:  No rules.  Just right.

When I was visiting the States in May, people kept asking me if there was Outback Steakhouse in Australia.  And I said, “No”.  That’s a silly American thing to ask, just like Outback Steakhouse is a silly American chain restaurant.  But you know what I discovered after some research on the interwebs?  Tampa-based Outback Steakhouse actually does have a handful of locations in Australia.  I thought they’d be for tourists, but they’re all way out in the suburbs.  How can this be possible?  This is a massive FAIL for Australia as a country.

But there is one thing that Australia has that helps combat these two failures:

Tim Tams.

Massive WIN!

Just Like Finding Jesus

Continuing on the same theme as last month’s post about the Vivid light show, the people in charge around here try to keep Sydneysiders as busy as possible with exhibitions, festivals, and more during the “cold” winter months.  Luckily, there is another important way that Aussies keep busy in June:  Shopping!

The end of financial year (EOFY as they abbreviate it here) falls on June 30 in Australia, and there are heaps of sales around town as every retailer wants to get in that last minute revenue to beef up their balance sheets.  No retailer is exempt, not even… IKEA!

First of all, did you notice my completely natural use of the word “heaps” above?  Oh yes, I’m totally an Aussie now.  Second of all, you read that right – a sale at IKEA!  But how can they discount their already uber-competitive prices?  I don’t how they do it, but they do it, and that’s all that matters.

My heterosexual buddy, Todd, woke up early with me one morning a few weeks ago to take the train with me 30 minutes out to the suburbs.  We arrived at 8:59 to hop in the queue of people already outside waiting for the 9am opening.  And then they opened the doors, and we were off like a herd of turtles – slowly meandering through the magnificent maze that is IKEA – completely awestruck at all of the pretty things that were surrounding us.  I nearly orgasmed in the kitchen section (note that I said “nearly”) and dropped to my knees to pray near the bedroom furniture.  I imagine I felt the same way that Christians do when they find Jesus.

IKEA is my Jesus.  And I am very religious.

We were in the IKEA for nearly four hours before we grabbed lunch and took the train back with our purchases.  And how do you know that I’m telling you all the truth?  Well, I took pictures to prove it.  Yes, I took pictures at the sale at IKEA.  Somewhere in the world right now, there is a busload of camera-happy Japanese tourists thinking to themselves “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Church of Sweden.  I mean IKEA.

Hehehehehehehehehehehehehehe!

Fillsta.  That’s Swedish for “The Phillster”.

Stuffed sharks and kangaroos, just to give IKEA a touch of Aussie authenticity.

Look at the sale on this bedspread!!!  Yes, I bought it.  It was cheaper than a t-shirt at Target in Australia.

I don’t eat beef, but for $1, I was tempted.

Todd, on the phone with his wife, asking her to meet us at the train station with a bigger dolly.  Yes, we took that massive box on the train with us.  How tall was it?  Well, Todd is over 6 feet.  That should give you an idea.

I had to buy an IKEA duffel bag/backpack for my purchases: the above mentioned bedspread, two pillows, a door mat, and some hangers.

All About Nick

I know, I know – it’s been ages since my last blog.  I know it’s been a while when people start asking what the hell is going on.  I’ve been busy - legitimately busy - so don’t give me no lip.  Do you know why I was so busy? … Because Nick was in town!!!!!!!

Yes, yes – if you come visit me you’ll get your very own blog post on Plan A!  Isn’t that reason enough?

Nick flew in for a week from Seattle.  He claims the title of being my first visitor from the States to come see me, and now he’s totally shot up my friend rankings for making the jaunt across the Pacific.  Wait, wait – I don’t really have friend rankings.  At least not on paper.

Nick was my guinea pig of sorts:  I got to try out all of the touristy things on him to see how he liked it.  Of course, I had to work 5 of the 7 days he was here, but I tried my best to give him an itinerary and keep him busy.  Sadly, the weather didn’t always cooperate, but we made do.

I took Nick on the Bondi-Coogee Clifftop Walk, along with a tour of the Sydney Opera House (I hadn’t done that yet), the ferry to Manly, the Biennale at the Museum of Contemporary Art, the café with the cute baristas (of course!), and a trivia night for old time’s sake (we placed 4th out of 18 teams with just 3 people!).  On days that I was working, I sent Nick out to the Biennale installation on Cockatoo Island, the Botanic Gardens, Centennial Park, Sydney Fish Market, Harbour Bridge, Taronga Zoo, Darling Harbour, and more… I kept him busy, mainly so he would be as tired as I am at the end of the day!  Working AND playing the perfect hostess is a hard job.

Did I mention the drinks?  Whenever Nick is around there are sure to be drinks.  It wasn’t nearly as bad as when we went down to LA last year – we didn’t get kicked out of any clubs, nor did we end up sharing a bed with Nick’s sister and a cat, nor did anyone puke in a coffeehouse the next morning… but I digress.  We had a blast all the same.  The lovely Ross & Jonathon cooked us dinner to start the evening off right.  We then met up with other friends at The Columbian, followed by the not-at-all-tacky Palms.  Nobody puked and nobody had to share a bed with a cat, but I’m sure I at least made a slight fool of myself with my typical drunken shenanigans.  Somehow we didn’t get too many pictures together – except at Palms.  Never give a drunk a camera.

Me, Ross, and Nick.  I’m only making that face because Ross is grabbing my nipple.

When you visit me in Sydney, you’re bound to see kangaroos!

Ross says that Nick is his new favorite American.  That’s fine.  I stand by my story that I’m really Canadian.

Bondi–Coogee Clifftop Walk

God, Ross – get off my nipple!

Please Stop

"Please Stop" is the final installment of a three part series: "Dear America."  My next post will be completely different.  You got a problem with that?

Dear America,

First of all:  Happy Birthday.  Second of all:  Stop.  Just stop.  You are ruining the children of the world.  Don’t you know that what you’re doing is wrong?  Hasn’t anyone told you?  I’m sure someone has mentioned it.  At the very least Canada must’ve whispered something in your ear at some point.

I was recently on a bus one afternoon here in Australia, when some school children boarded.  These children were in the 6 to 8 years old range – all dressed up in their school uniforms.  Did you know that school uniforms are mandatory here?  And better yet, rich schools have fancy uniforms and poor schools have cheap uniforms that you can buy at Kmart.  That way you can tell the upper class little shits from the lower class little shits.

I digress.  There was nothing out of the ordinary about these schoolchildren, that is, until they started to sing.  First of all, I hate children, especially those that sing on public buses.  But to make matters worse, do you know what these six year olds were singing?!?!?

Tik Tok by Kesha.

I’m not even kidding you.  They were singing Tik Tok by Kesha.  Oh wait – sorry – it’s Ke$ha.  My bad.

Where does a 6 year old get off singing Ke$ha?  Does this 6 year old even understand what it means to wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy?  I haven’t had too much interaction with Aussie parents, but I can’t imagine they would let their kids do the things that P Diddy does.  Hell, I don’t even know what P Diddy does, but judging from the music video where Ke$ha wakes up in the bathtub in the morning and then proceeds to go out and get smashed again, I imagine it’s pretty awful.

There’s only one place we can lay the blame for this one:  America.  That’s right – America.  You bastards created that little skank and then brainwashed little Aussie schoolchildren into thinking that she’s hot shit.  You are having a horrendous effect on the youth of the world and you need to take responsibility.  Just like BP is taking responsibility for that giant oil spill in the Gulf, you need to pony up and help fix this problem.

Wait.  BP.  Oh shit.

It’s not that I like the youth of the world or anything – I believe everyone knows my views on procreation and children.  But come on.  If these kids are the future, then please just kill me now.

Sincerely,

Phill