DEFINING ART

What's Paul, the World Cup predicting octopus doing out his tank?
Maybe he has a Prime Minister's daughter to go and pose with

In the great tradition of pointing out why I'm woefully under-qualified to comment on what I'm about to comment on, let me begin by saying, I'm no artist.

I took art at school. Briefly. I think I decided it wasn't for me the day I tried to draw Brendan Malone. With all due respect to Brendan, I think we could safely predict he was never heading for a career as a fashion model. In saying that, he still didn't deserve my somewhat interpretive representation of him. How the hell do you get the eyes symmetrical anyway? I'm not a robot, dammit.

I finished the portrait, and stepped back to admire my work, but failed. There was no admiring to be done here. It was rubbish. Don't worry, I've had it destroyed to protect further generations.

Nope, no natural artistic ability whatsoever. I can't even win at Pictionary, although that could just be due to the unfair time pressure.

However, I know what I like.

While doing the art wasn't my thing, turned out I showed slightly more promise when it came to appreciating it. When they finally threw me out halfway through 7th form (year 13) the only teachers who showed any regret to see me go were my English teacher and my Art History teacher.

Not sure why my English teacher was so sentimental about things, especially since he once saw me pashing his daughter. On the other hand, there's a slim possibility I was actually not bad at Art History.

Of course, the real question here is, what the hell has all this got to do with anything?

Well, I've decided this is art appreciation week, and it's all thanks to the PM's daughter... with a vague nod to Miley Cyrus.

This week, the media has got hold of Steph Key's art portfolio and turned it into a news story. If you haven't seen them, there are a number of pictures featuring her posing partially nude, partially covered in sushi, holding a bright red hand gun and wearing an octopus on her vagina.

Depending on who you talk to, the pics have either caused moral outrage or they are kind of cool. I think they are kind of cool and here's why; we're talking about them.

My definition of art is this; something that elicits an emotional response. The Key photos undoubtedly have achieved this and they've achieved it on a global scale. Whether it's because they're clever photos or because she's the daughter of a Prime Minister makes no difference. The fact is, young Stephanie has caused a stir around the planet, therefore she is an artist.

I certainly have questions. For example, the pictures are described as self portraits, but how do you take a selfie when you're lying on the ground under a blanket of California rolls and sashimi? Does she have a self-timer function on her camera you can set for 5 seconds, 30 seconds or 1 hour 20? Where do you buy bright red hand guns and are they available in other fabulous colours? Was the octopus still alive? If so, presumably the suckers on its tentacles were still operational. Interesting. You see? If that isn't art, I don't know what is.

Just days later, we are blasted with repeated footage of a barely clad Miley Cyrus gyrating her way through this year's VMA's, doing rude things to a collection of giant teddy bears and an oversized foam rubber finger. Again we find ourselves asking, is this performance art or just an attempt to shock? I say, given that attempt succeeded, immediately and around the world, those to things are the same thing.

After all, it can't be easy to shock at the VMA's, formerly infamous for Madonna and Britney's lesbo pash and Kanye's slagging off of Taylor Swift. Even Rihanna seemed shocked by Ms. Cyrus' performance, and she's not averse to a bit of public prancing about in matching bra and big pants herself.

Artists have always shocked us, and may they always continue to. Remember, Mozart was almost run out of town for suggesting they stick some dancing in his operas. Rock'n'roll.

I would have gone with a foam octopus myself, but that's just me

LIKE SQUEEZING BLOG FROM A STONE

Just some of the garbage that spills out of my head

The other day I tried to explain what blogging was to a group of Hibiscus Coast widows.

I didn't just randomly wander around town looking for older ladies without husbands on the off-chance they might be interested in what I had to say. I'd been invited to speak to them at their 12th anniversary meeting. Whether they'd expected me to rave on about blogging once I got there is a question for debate, but that didn't stop me raving on anyway.

I asked how many of them knew what blogging was. Approximately 2 and a half people raised their hands. Of those 2 and a half, one was the guy who was there to play the guitar, one was probably wanting to ask me why I was talking about blogging instead of what it's like to work with Paul Holmes and Mike Hosking and the half was my mother in law, who I think was only there to cheer me on, so she doesn't really count.

Anyway, what I told them blogging was is this; "What happens when someone unloads the contents of their head directly onto the internet."

Unfortunately for you, today I literally have nothing to write about, so today I will do exactly what I told those widows bloggers generally do. Here's what's in my head...

Why is there a One Direction movie? Why is it called, "This Is Us"? For that matter, why is there One Direction? What kind of groundbreaking technology had to be developed to film 1-D in THREE-D?

Should we be worried Fukushima is still leaking?

Is Russia in denial? Seriously, the whole country seems to be so vehemently and outspokenly against the idea of homosexuality, I'm beginning to think they're all gay and just can't accept it. Don't fight it, Russia. Follow your hearts. It's cold. There's vodka. Love the one you're with.

How quickly I would have died if I'd been the missing skier on Treble Cone. Apparently he kept himself alive by doing exercises to stop falling asleep. Hate exercise. Love sleep. I would have been screwed.

Hey, all the people who keep telling everyone to stop booing Quade Cooper... stop telling everyone to stop booing Quade Cooper. You're having no effect whatsoever. You may even be making it worse. In fact, he got really, really booed again when he came on last Saturday night, and that was in Sydney. The Sydney in Australia. The Australia he actually plays for.

He is a bit of a dick though.

What lolly would I change my last name to if I could? If you haven't heard, Maria Sharapova wants to be called Maria SUGARpova for the U.S. Open to promote her sweet shops. Can't decide between glennzb M&Ms (all the letters sound funny when you say them all at once) or GlennGums. Just call me Party Mix for short.

Why isn't there any yachting today? They were supposed to do 2 yesterday because they were supposed to do 2 the day before and 2 the day before that but only did 1 on all those days and now they're still 1 behind. According to my schedule, they've got to do 2 tomorrow. Given they haven't managed to do 2 on any day yet, seems like 3 would be a big ask. To be honest, I find 1 race a day is too many, so I don't know what I'm complaining about.

Just checked with someone and she assures me that last paragraph did indeed make sense. Or at least as much sense as anything else that's going on on San Francisco Bay right now.

Lastly, is this week's glennzb Glog reading a little bit too much like glennzb's Silly Six-Pack? And if it is, will that mean I won't have anything to write about on Saturday? So many questions. Not enough answers. I'll try harder next week, I promise.

An artist's impression of the inside of my brain.
Not very accurate, there's much less in there

PLEASE DON'T ASK ME ABOUT THE WEATHER

I bet I could predict the weather more accurately than this floating box of tinfoil.
It's not rocket science

I'm begging you. Surely there are other things we could discuss. Things that matter. Things like pizza. Or bourbon perhaps. Why is it always the weather?

I'm not a political man. Oh sure, I've had my small crusades. Issues of genuine importance, like getting the Wellington Street on-ramp reopened or my call for a boycott of all pay and display parking, but in the main, things that get other interest groups riled up tend to wash over me like a summer breeze. No, make that a babbling brook, I'd prefer to keep any meteorological references out of it. For example, I was in favour of the anti-smacking bill because I hoped it would stop my kids hitting me. I was against gay marriage, but only because I'm not really into marriage. You see? When it comes to "big issues" I often seem to miss the point of them.

Maybe this is what has happened with this weather thing.

Why is everybody obsessed with it? Why? Why?

On the issue of weather, I'm making a stand. Ban it I say, ban it outright.

Oh, obviously the weather will carry on regardless, nothing we can do about that. But that is my whole point; why do we spend so much time worrying about something we have absolutely no control over whatsoever? It'd be different if we could predict it in some way, but all the evidence I have to hand shows we've made almost no tangible progress in this area at all.

Yet mystifyingly, we dedicate more and more resources, time and money to the weather every day.

How can the weather possibly justify 3 hits in one TV news bulletin? I get that they can actually measure what the weather was like that day, but who cares? It's already happened!

As for the forecasting thing, what an absolute crock. I'll tell you the weather segment I'd be genuinely interested in; the one where they play back the previous day's forecast and compare it to what really happened. Like they'd ever give me the satisfaction.

I reckon the amount and timing of any rainfall would be wrong about half the time. I'd say they'd get the wind wrong about 75 percent of the time and the predicted temperature would be wrong at least 6 days a week. Oh, and I don't remember them ever predicting a killer tornado.  That is to say, I HAVE heard weather forecasts mentioning the possibility of tornadoes,  but only ever in the days immediately after a killer tornado. And those ones never happen. EVER.

Why would we take any notice of that level of extreme bollocks? If meteorologists were financial commentators and they gave us advice that unreliable, we'd all be bankrupt by the end of the week. How is it these people all still have jobs when they get most of it completely wrong every single day?

It's obvious to me the weather is not science, it's magic, and as such, we mere mortals will never understand it. All we can do is marvel at its complexities, enjoy its sunsets, and say things like, "Boy, cold last night, wasn't it?" when we see each other at the gym.

Not the most specific forecast I've ever seen, and probably still wrong

DESPERATELY TRYING TO RECAPTURE SOMETHING OR OTHER

A guitar THIS dusty is a sign of some SERIOUS neglect

Did I ever tell you about my first job?

I don't mean my role as stand-in paper boy. Which was pretty awesome by the way, because when you cover for people at Christmas, you get all their presents. It was perfectly okay for me to keep those, right?

Nor do I mean cleaning the windows at the bank where Dad was the manager, which I did a terrible job of. They had a pool table in their staff room though, so that was cool.

No, I'm talking about my first REAL job. You know, after I left school. By that I mean, after I REALLY left school, not just when my Physics and Calculus teachers got so sick of me they conspired to have me banished to the "Transistion to Work" class. Disruptive influence my arse. That's probably another Glog in itself.

My first job? Busker.

Don't laugh. Busking is SO a job!

More of a job than being on the dole, anyway. Not that I have anything against anyone on a benefit, I just liked the idea of NOT bludging... especially after 18 years of doing exactly that off my parents.

Besides, I had a 1974 Honda Civic to run, and while petrol was a tiny fraction of the price then compared to now, it wasn't free. In short, I needed some coin.

Depressingly, by 18 years of age, my skill base was somewhat lacking. The major talents I'd spent my scholastic career developing were mostly centred around telling jokes, faffing about with computers, listening to music and generally showing off.

Little did I know at the time, this made me uniquely qualified to be the Technical Director on the Newstalk ZB Breakfast Show. Unfortunately, back in the early '90s, Newstalk ZB and I didn't even know each other existed.

What I DID have, was an impressive catalogue of songs I'd written myself.

By impressive, I mean sheer quantity. I'm relatively certain 6 years worth of teen angst spilled directly into 2 hours worth of 3 minute tunes does not a promising career as a rock star make.

However, it did mean I had enough material to stand in the middle of Hamilton's Victoria Street and scream my heart out, 4 hours a day, every weekday lunchtime.

Just exactly how terrible WERE my compositions? Reviews were mixed. After a couple of weeks, the lady from Just Jeans came out and said they were getting a bit sick of me and could I please go and play somewhere else? I thought she probably had a point, especially given I only had 2 hours of music yet was playing for 4 hours every day. Hell, I was getting a bit sick of me too.

On the other hand, as I was emptying the coins from my guitar case so I could put my guitar in it and find a new posse somewhere up the road, the bloke from Hallensteins rushed out, imploring me to stay. "Don't take any notice of her! Hallensteins owns this whole area and we think you're great. Stay as long as you like."

Or words to that effect.

Probably as a classic mark of how little faith I had in my own abilities, I moved on anyway. It seemed to me, the girls in Just Jeans might have slightly more taste than the Hallensteins guys. I wasn't really basing this on any tangible musical know-how, just the amount of branded polar-fleece currently on display in their respective window fronts.

The point is, somehow I eked out about $150-$200 a week just by singing my songs to people. I'd actually wholeheartedly recommend busking as a method of honing your performance skills. Because you're effectively performing a series of 30-second concerts to passers-by as they, well, pass by, every moment of every track has to be of the highest standard you can possibly produce. I learned early on, if I gave every silly little ditty 100% from intro right through to ad-lib and fade, I had much more chance of securing the loose change floating around in those pedestrians' pockets.

I can't remember how long I lasted, a mere month or two probably, but by the end of that time, even if the songs themselves were still soppy, I'd like to think the performances had become fairly slick.

Alas, no high-rolling record exec happened past, or if they did, they remained unimpressed. I remained undiscovered and any dreams of rags-to-riches rock stardom remained unrealised.

Before I knew it, years had passed, along with careers of varying length and success in apple orchards, seed storehouses and eventually, thankfully, even radio stations.

Those rock star dreams, even unrealised, never really fade completely though. The guitar still sits in the corner of the lounge, mostly just gathering dust. Every now and then though, usually after a few drinks too many, the stand gives up its mate for an hour or two and I lose myself in what I like to think of as my back-catalogue.

Maybe my songs weren't ALL useless... I'm just glad I wrote down most of the lyrics. Recently, somebody told me you never forget your own songs - I guess they must practice theirs more often than I rehearse mine.

In saying that, "...and a need for tears washes over me in one soul-tearing sweep?" Seriously? I think I just got the musical equivalent of an ice cream headache. Perhaps that's one that SHOULD have stayed back in high school.

Please tell me that isn't a box filled with teenage love, hope and heartbreak