For fork's sake

I have realised recently I have been reprogrammed, brainwashed or perhaps been the subject of the best hoodwink of the century. Am I a new subject in the ultimate psychology experiment? Am I a living tribute to the late, great behaviourist Pavlov?

Last week I found myself in the kitchen at home, opening the second drawer down, in order to retrieve the dinner time cutlery. The 'second' drawer down? YES crazy concept, isn't it? Who on earth would use the second drawer to put the crucial everyday utensils you want the easiest access to? A previous flatmate - that's who! (I’m leaving a bit of space here for you to ponder the impact this might have on your own soul if you had to live with cutlery in the second drawer – and I really want you to think about it)
…
… (sounds of crickets chirruping)
… (sounds of tumbleweed flying past)
… have you had enough time to process it  yet?

… Too mind-boggling for ya? Well - Welcome to my world of forks in a fiasco and my sorry state of sabotaged spoons!

I tried many times to broach the subject in a light-hearted and humorous way, such as purposely forgetting guest's settings at the dinner table and suggesting they find their own as they were close to the kitchen anyway... Each and every time, guests would happily go to the drawers but descend into a confused and perplexed state as they opened the top drawer to reveal the unused junk and remnant utilities usually saved for the privacy of one's lower kitchen compartments. One friend shrieked we had committed a cardinal sin, we had broken life’s golden rule – Cutlery must ALWAYS be in the top drawer.

Some even pointed out it was not only an Australian way of life but an international standard and a universal code, just as the earth always spins from west to east, and carbon is the basis for all natural life forms on earth. These things can’t be tampered with - they just ARE! In my book, this is compelling evidence that I did not live with another reasonable earthling – dare I ask, what planet were they living on? It's as if some wormhole had opened up to my apartment and I was cohabiting with some intergalactic impostor.

Back to the real point -  Said 'alien’ would refuse to take part in any debate and completely dismiss the status-quo each and every time there was any suggestion of simply switching the cutlery drawer around. Even at one juncture snapping in a vicious scowl “if you dare change it, I will only move it back!" And in other, less vitriolic moods, would just explain the dilemma as one of their endearing idiosyncrasies that should be worth cherishing not changing.

Even months after the tyrant has left the building they seem to have left an indelible mark on my psyche every time I am in the kitchen.

After spending the better part of a YEAR frustratingly opening the top drawer for the cutlery to have a “what the F” moment every single time I realized I got it wrong, I’m surprised I haven’t succumbed to bouts of crawling into the corner and rocking back-and-forth for a few hours. Even while writing this I have a strange uneasiness filling my body and quite a large compulsion to scream FOR FORK’S SAKE! 

While I'm a huge fan of progressive science; I can only hope that quantum physics doesn't solve too many of the current Space mysteries, so my ex roommate's parallel universe remains - just that, and I can live in hope that one day I return to a suitable state of re-conditioned satisfaction, reliably knowing where to seek out a spoon in this solar system.

Etti-cut: the art of unfriending

 

We've all been there at some point...yep, you know when you're just not feeling the chummy vibes, when sunshine just ain’t sparkling when they're around... or you actually just feel mentally battered and bruised, sapped by the psychic-vampire or out-nerved by your instantaneous rising blood pressure whenever that 'special' someone invades your wired world...

 

Although they're a menace to our digital community it's not their fault entirely. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and the semantic web in general have all contributed to these poor ‘digitally delusionals’ to socially devolve. It's as if the computers are in fact programming these poor souls, allowing their OCD tendencies, FOMO feelings and overall self-obsessiveness to amplify beyond the realm of what would reasonably be tolerated in real time.

I've decided I won't stand for the media megalomaniacs and have been compelled to cull recently. It was one certain individual making a nuisance and has now wrecked it for even the most polite of casual acquaintances engaging in my online world.

This week's post is dedicated to you my ex-friend, un-liked and un-inspired, my posthumous pal. You may well wonder what all the fuss is about? Well here, let me shed some light on the situation for you. Your 14 to 44 odd posts per day of inane announcements about ones’ self, just make me crave some relief from your utterly annoying visual noise. In fact I tried this once and diverted my gaze to the blank beige walls of my office and actually found them more arresting than your 28th post about your new song being released. Yes I did pay attention to your first post and witnessed the flurry of interest and gushy praise from many on-lookers – aw, but hang on you only got 16 likes... gee, that's not nearly enough to placate the size of your ego is it? No! You must have at least 40 likes to think that your endeavours have been commended, and reflect an adequate representation of your sheer talent ...so you'll post and post, and post and post and repost and post again until your lofty genius is appreciated in full!

Someone clever in FB tech-land should create an algorithm for people like you. Imagine a world where you could auto repost until you get your sufficient quota of pat's on the back... Surely that'll save the many callouses you must have endured by physically beating the hyperlink into your phone again and again.

As this scenario mentioned above played out, I withheld my "thumbs up" - instead daydreaming of a GIANT Facebook-styled sculptural thumb performing the approving upward poise as it was being rammed in one of your fragile body parts it may fit so elegantly...

 

 

David Shrigley's giant Thumb's Up

...NUP sorry, no sir’ee. I politely un-followed, in that instance did not even give a thought to open the link and watch the daggy homemade YouTube clip specially made for your track, instead, I quickly moved on to more convincing and entertaining posts such as the top, 50 most ironic sign photographs and the latest quizz - which muppet are you?

 

Then, there you were at it again the next day - and the next - and the next, with more inane repeats of the same idiosyncratic behaviour. So you got lots of likes on a funny link you shared - Ok... it doesn't mean that a few days later we've all forgotten what a riot you were, pilfering someone else’s status update and used it to your advantage... we’ve seen it before and unlike you, haven’t had a lobotomy in the past week, we can instantly tell it’s a rehash of you reliving your glory moment of yesterday’s Facebook highlights.

I gave you chances… too many for my own sanity in fact, I have no other choice but to DELETE! 

I had no idea the amount of pleasure this simple act of unfriending would give me. I am elated, uplifted, on cloud 9, no longer weighed down by your badly framed photos, your penchant for viral videos and lack-lustre taste in music! Free at last!

 

Until...

Within a week you sent me a text message and asked if I'd unfriended you on FB. My immediate thought was - how the hell would you even know I'm no longer propping up your popularity stats unless you make a habit of stalking over my wall to take a voyeuristic gawk at my social pics or pinch a worthy reference for a rainy day.

 

My polite but direct reply still gave you no inkling to ask yourself - maybe you should let go? When I said I had technical problems with FB and 'would look into it 'there was absolutely no intention of fulfilling this promise. I do hope you don’t text again to remind me of my obligations. I hope, but I cannot be sure, can I? Your previous behaviour has kept an uneasy swirling in the pit of my stomach, I am unsure you may be decent enough and have your wits about you to discern the line drawn in the sand, that line between the alpha-numerical asphyxiation and moderated mode.

If you do connect again to probe and pester then I should perhaps show some etiquette, however remember, I have already broken a promise, so all you will likely receive is a hyperlink to this blog post.

Too cool for school

This week my heckles are up after a particular conversation with someone about music production. It started as a pretty harmless coffee catch up and the usual queries about one another's activities. Knowing full well he was recently finishing some pop-rock tracks in his home studio, I enquired as to how it was all going. The expected reply, that it was all nearing completion, was forthcoming but was then followed by the most effusive pomp about how good it all was, and he was now exploring doing something a bit different. The he said “I’m going to focus on making my next tracks a ‘cool electro’ album.

‘Cool’ electro? Are you kidding me?  And this coming from someone who actually works in the music industry! I found this 'genuine' genre description so cringe-worthy that it took all my effort to stop the involuntary wince so as to prevent a full mouth of hot coffee dribbling down my face. I paused, gulped and summoned an earnest, inquisitive tone and replied, “Cool electro? Now that’s a departure from the classic rock albums you are used to writing!” Unfortunately, Mr music mistook my statement as further interest on my part and misconstrued it as a question, as if I was demanding further clarification on the subject….. groan.

This is the point in the conversation I commenced my own internal dialogue while he repeated “cool electro, you know” and began his know-it-all pontificating about said electro album…what I actually heard, instead, was... blah-blah-blah-blah-dee-blah-dee-blah-blah-dee-blah blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah (in much the same tone as a whiney guitar in G-minor). My internal rant kicked in and immediately drowned out his feeble attempt to maintain any semblance of ‘cool’ from that point on. All I could think was “c’mon mate – you cannot seriously think that any discerning music-buying audience is that stupid?”

The lesson here is, one should never use the word ‘cool’ when describing something pertaining to oneself. It is the ultimate turn-off.

Using it as an adjective relating to yourself, ironically has the reverse meaning when it is contextualised by an onlooker. At an absolute pinch you may use it sparingly when describing inanimate objects in your possession but absolutely only, in this instance, in the company of your nearest and deadest who may share your precise tastes. The same goes for numerous other superlatives such as ‘awesome’ or ‘fantastic’. Let’s face it absolutely no one likes a boaster or a big-head!

On the other hand using cool to describe things that have NO relational value to oneself is completely fine and can be lavishly bandied about in describing pretty much everything. A brief example of a reasonable use in my book is: Hey – did you just see that uber-cool homeless guy, wearing that way-cool tartan tuxedo, walk by just now? (quite frankly where was this imaginary dude when I needed a distraction from the mediocrity of that coffee-date). I digress…

My point is there are plenty of other words to use when trying to evoke the flavour, the concept, or the genre of electro. Even citing other 'like' examples or using make-believe words can help the astute electro lover in getting the gist. Had the coffee-wrecker said “my music will be a Miami-bass driven, beatsy exploration of glitched-up, orchestral samples on a Wolfy-esqe psychedelic tip”, then I would have instantly thought….WOW – how cool!

I doubt Mr music on his pop-guitar tangent, will realise the errors of his ways, nor see that he is well out of his depth in electro land, only inevitably releasing more trite music into to the plethora of noisy waste of time albums out there….  Sigh!

Mr music, I'll leave you to your generic  pop music I think you were really trying to describe.
Give me some hot, dirty, sweaty, bluesy electro to listen to, while I drink my coffee alone, any day!!

Poopetrator of the worst kind

I don't have a car these days, so walking is my main means of getting around this city. Lately I've been pretty surprised at all the dog poo covering the streets. Now I really just have to say; "what a load of crap"!

To those who are the culprits: please, please pick up these turds. It is your civic duty, as a pet owner, after all. There's nothing funny or arty about leaving your dog's-do on the pavement; no matter how sloppy, sculpturally gestural, or aromatically interesting it is. At a stretch it is just thought provoking - it makes everyone stop aghast and question "who is this cretin?"

Leaving dog crap in the open public spaces is simply a blatant statement about your slovenly behaviour and total lack of social conscience. Don’t you know, leaving your puppy’s calling card actually tells us more about YOU than your canine companion? You can’t fool me…

You are the dog owner who: lives in an apartment where pets are not allowed; are too lazy or forget to walk it EVERY day; in the ‘uselessly hectic’ lifestyle you lead, running from home, to work, to gym, to trendy restaurants and cocktail bars around town, you might give your poor, sulking critter a 5 minute wander around the block; you say you love your doggy, but you spend more time on Twitter and Instagram seeking validation from your 700 followers than giving little Fluffy-wuff a bath yourself - instead  you spend a fortune primping and styling your mutt for the act of holding up the thin veneer of your own image strutting the streets.

May I suggest that this doggy demeanor of dumping in the middle of the footpath is perhaps a cry for attention from your furry friend? Get off your mobile phone, turn around and pay attention for a change you ‘poop-ertrator’! Or, hey here’s an idea – walk another 1 minute to the park where dogs love frolicking and happily crap in the convenient vicinity of a bag dispenser!!

Well, to you, selfish dog-do-generate, my hope is that one day soon you stumble home in a drunken stupor, only to tread full-footed in a pile of steaming stench and unaware, make it home to smear your plush carpet from one end of your designer apartment to the other.

Maybe then you’ll wake up and realize what a big, hot, stinky, smudge on society you’ve been?