You’re a F@#king Weirdo

weird·o n. pl. weird·oes Slang

1. A person regarded as being very strange or eccentric.2. A deranged, potentially dangerous person.The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language

weirdo weirdie

noun eccentric, nut (slang), freak (informal), flake (slang, chiefly U.S.), crank (informal), loony (slang), nutter (Brit. slang), oddball (informal), crackpot (informal), nutcase (slang), headcase (informal), headbanger (informal), queer fish (Brit. informal) All the other kids at school thought I was a weirdo.

Collins Thesaurus of the English Language

Are you? How do you react when someone calls you a weirdo?

Until searching for the definition I wasn’t aware the word had such negative connotations. If you hear something often enough it loses its edge becomes normal and accepted, which seems to have happened here. The word just comes through as vanilla. I could at this point break into any one of a thousand stories all about weirdness.  My weirdness. Although it has been called eccentricity a few times too. This seems somewhat more dignified and befitting as I get older, kind of like how grey hairs give some men bearing.


You are a fucking weirdo. Thanks for that. Ever so pleased that you had this opportunity to share with me your thoughts on my personality and general humanity.  There is a rage, seething just below the surface, it carries sharp edged weapons and other devices for inflicting harm. It is OK though, this rage is contained, kept inside a little pouch. Rage with the safety on.  By no means is this rage carried as an implicit threat against any others person. That’s not the reason it is still carried. It is fuel. Picture iron man’s arc reactor.

he man

Anger if left to its own devices will always destroy.  Harnessed it can move mountains, part oceans and heal the sick. This seems a far more productive path on which to tread.

So go ahead and call some one a weirdo today, it’s such a nice thing to do.


What would you say?

We all have a wise person in our lives who said, “If you haven’t got anything nice to say then do not say anything at all”.  Let us expand on this very sound piece of advice to read, “If you haven’t got any thing of value to say then do not say anything at all”.  I will venture that it is nigh on impossible to get any two people to arrive at a consensus and agree what is of value. Of value to whom?
Can we say, for simplicity’s sake, that any random words set forth will eventually settle in a place wherein someone would find value in them. So to follow this logic means that whatever we say has some value, correct? Then let us throw open the shutters and stand before an open window shouting whatever we please. Oh wait, silly me, that’s what Facebook is for.  Facebook and the plethora of other platforms the world wide web gives us.


I would like you to come with me, here take my hand. We shall stroll over yonder, it’s not far, and we shall find a stage.  Step through these curtains, OK yes you may peek first if it pleases you. But please verify that there is no audience.  That’s right you have the entire stage to yourself.  Go forth and take your place front and centre, sans spotlight (this thing is already dramatic enough).

What is it that you would like to say? You may say or do whatever you please, go ahead, the acoustics are wonderful. You have the floor, uncontested but no audience.

What would you say if you knew no one was listening?


I have a dirty little secret to share

I love performance art. The more ridiculous the better. Wait. Stop.Correction. I love making performance art. This is a performance from 2005 entitled “The Coca Performance”. The image quality is beyond terrible, but the soundtrack kicks arse.

A brief description of the performance: I am a high priest preparing to make a sacrifice at the alter of the coke god. The three temple priestess’ are holding on silken pillows 1. A ceremonial knife 2. The sacrifice (a can of Pepsi) 3. $1.20 in change.

Man Dates, Lamb Cutlets and Unlikely Friendships

As we all do, I bitch about my job. It sucks and I would much rather be occupying my time with other pursuits, as you who have viewed a few of my posts will no doubt know.  That being said, I have to work, just like we all do.  To list a hundred reasons why my job sucks meaty balls would be all too easy.  To find ten reasons why it is actually pretty cool is another thing entirely. I say ten, because there are of course many positive aspects of mine and any one else’s job. I wish to speak about just one.

You can’t judge a book by its cover nor, I believe, can you judge a persons character the first moment you meet them. I concede that sometimes we meet people to whom we feel an instant attraction or repulsion. However it has been my experience that this is seldom the end of the story and I love a good story.

For the past six or seven years I have worked in the construction industry as a steelfixer.  I place and tie the reinforcing steel that is used in nearly all modern building as most modern buildings are made out of reinforced concrete. I am a steely. Apparently in America (I am Australian) they are called iron-workers, which I think is pretty cool. Perhaps the subject of another post could be an exploration of the cultural differences in job titles and the slang or jargon associated.

Working as I do in construction means that I travel about following the work and while I don’t travel interstate or overseas I do travel widely in the region that I live. (The state of Victoria and region of Gippsland) When I lived in the state capital, Melbourne, I could work on four or five different job site at any given time. Spending a few days here or there. This could span a period of a couple of weeks up to a year or more depending on the length of the project.  During this time you meet allot of people, all kinds of folk with all kinds of stories.

I have met teachers who trained for four years at university and who after teaching for a couple of years wanted a job without such a burden of responsibility and ended up tying steel.  Monstrous Cook Islanders who, if rumors are to be believed, once killed a man with a single punch.  The type of bloke you would not wish to meet in a dark alley.  Yet kind and gentle, a gun on the keyboard and drums forming part of the rhythm section in a christian R&B band. Classically trained musicians whose drinking far exceeds any known “safe” levels and yet whose jobs run smooth and true with none of the usual mistakes, hiccups or delays.

Along with the sharing of stories, which  is what makes my job interesting, there are the unlikely friendships that are formed. Working together with people who outside of the context of work there would be no conceivable reason for your paths to cross.  Thrown together day after day these friendships develop through the stories told.

I must run now and get to work, to hear and write the next chapter.

P.S.  Hi Cal!

Too many times I’ve seen the things I wrote get screwed up and thrown in the bin. A summary of the last couple of weeks.

It has been awhile. A couple of weeks, maybe more. My routine has shifted. Many aborted attempts. Even now the words come staccato. Watching as entire paragraphs get erased before my eyes, just who is pressing the delete key? Me.

So, as the title states this is a summary. A catch up of sorts.

1. My nephews school concert.

Sat rapt. Left with sore cheeks. Smiled with gusto the entire show. Watched not the concert as a whole but a hundred solo performances. Some of the kids up there, in there loving each and every moment. Others awkward, unsure, and yet they pushed on and made it to the part of the show in which they all starred. The final applause. We clapped and they bowed and we all smiled.

2. I shot my dog.

Came home from work to be told that my Macy had killed one of my neighbors calves. Blood everywhere. A savage attack.  Lost for words I knew what needed to be done. We went for a walk. As always she keeping one eye on me seeking permission to run free. Not yet girl. We found the herd and I gave her a nod. Off she went, straight for them. Bark, snap, cow bucks, dog runs. Try this one, same result, maybe this one? I knew what had to be done. Home we walked, she right by my side.  Found the calf.  She sniffed and so did I.  One final walk, one last pat. Good girl, sit. Good girl.

3. New Work.

Ever in self promotion mode and carrying photos of my work, I met a lady who passed on my details to a friend of hers who runs a sculpture exhibition in he winery.  I am producing 2 and have reservations for a third work for the show.  I had forgotten how much I like to craft every aspect of the work. Dramatic promotional shots (see above), long winded titles for my work (never, ever, ever – untitled) and third person blurbs about the artist that are slightly unhinged and almost nonsensical.


Be careful what you wish for.

While studying at university (Visual Arts) we used to have these things called group reviews. I think they were about once a month. Where the whole year level (about 15-20 students, not a big uni, no) would take turns presenting their work and receiving critique, comments and questions from the group and lecturers.  I was the common feeling that these were days to dread. But not I. Being the incongruous bastard that I am, I loved and looked forward to them.

Who would like to go first?  Group would recede pressing themselves into their seats. I would jump out of my seat, as happy as Larry and full of beans. It wasn’t displaying my work that got me all excited (I do tend to get excited like a child, hey it’s fun) it was what came next. The critique. A chance to verbally spar with my peers, be challenged, picked apart it was intellectual battle. It was why I went to university, and that is an rant all of its own.

I quickly learnt after a couple of these group reviews that this was not to be. Everybody was quick with the platitudes, scathing critique, no were to be seen. Everyone was so nice and lovely and there were fluffy bunny’s that hopped about through fresh green grass spotted with rainbows and candy canes.  It was not war but a love fest.

So I changed tack, that’s right readers, I displayed some fucking adaptability. (If you missed an earlier post that’s my favorite quote from my favorite book so I do like to use it) I decided to go last and all day long would ask most awkward questions(this spun off into an entire semesters work and yes I am bracket crazy today)I could think of.  Challenging my peers in hope that by the end of the day they would collectively think “stuff this bloke, let’s hammer him”. But no, nothing, narda, nix.

When I queried my mentoring lecturer about this, I received a question in response. Why are all your ideas wrapped up so tight and why are you in such a hurry? BAM!!!!! Knocked me flat on my arse. I didn’t have an answer to this. I had nothing, narda, nix.  I staged a tactical retreat and nursed my wounds, thinking and thinking and thinking. Stumped. Was for years.

Until the other day.

Ideas wrapped up so tight?

I spend a great deal of time preparing my work and my thoughts about it. Researching and doing my homework. Stepping outside myself to probe my own work for holes and gain an objective view. All this results in ideas that are well formed and considered. Ideas being wrapped up tight seems to have a negative connotation. This was an excellent question.

Why am I in such a hurry?

Because the clock is ticking, the world is spinning and time waits for no man (or woman). I don’t have all the time in the world, could have yes, but may be dead tomorrow. So if I piss today up the wall maybe I don’t get tomorrow.  Yes yes, by all means make time to smell the roses, stop and ponder things and enjoy the beauty of a sunrise, but get moving again and keep the ball rolling.


…………….Flash!…..he saved every one of us!


Allot of people speak about inspiration. Being inspired into action, looking for inspiration, waiting to be inspired. Seeking inspiration by going to galleries and museums, through travel, seeing the landscape and meeting the people. Just to name a few.


Don’t look for inspiration.  Look to inspire.

Be inspiring.

That is not to say you should walk around with your head stuck up your arse, blind to the world around you.  That’s just silly (and smelly). Soak up your surroundings, digest them. But more importantly ask yourself what are you doing, who is watching you, how can your actions inspire those around you.

We need people to inspire us but if every one is looking elsewhere, who will be inspiring? Be that person. Be someones inspiration. Be that firecracker that is shoved under someones seat.





Poor little confused and bewildered me.

It’s Stuff not art. Can I call this art? I feel much happier calling it stuff. The more and more I see art, talk to people about it and read about it, the more I am confused.  Seriously, what the hell are you on about? Please come around and un-confuse me. Would love to see you.

I’m cringing as I write this, seems I’ve been having this dilemma forever.

The constant battle between slow full stops and 80’s cock rock.

Pretty bad haircuts and worse facial hair.

My tongue stuck firmly in my cheek. Stuck in so, so deep.


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Hope you enjoyed this collection of stuff. Stuff. Art. Stuff. Art. Stuff. Art. Stuff. Art.