A gypsy stole my homework

It’s not often you can legitimately use the excuse that “a gypsy stole my homework” in a professional environment.

But tomorrow, when I have to give a presentation about Facebook to the office, it’s the excuse I’m going to try. If I hadn’t spent four hours at the police station this afternoon, I might have something to show tomorrow. Alas.

The events rolled out as thus.

I work in an open plan office at the end of a courtyard. I had just come back from lunch break, and was checking Facebook/working, which, owing to my new role as community manager, is one and the same thing.

My friend Kara and Ali are selling calendars of photos they’ve taken because they need some special equipment for their kid Sebastian that they can’t get in Egypt. Great idea, I thought, and bought one.

I had just processed the order, when i became aware of something, someone, on my right shoulder. I turned to see a young boy begging me for money. He had some rubbish sign made of paper that he was thrusting in my face.

WHAT THE FICK.

I knew that I hadn’t magically been teleported to a Paris metro station – there was no-one playing the accordion. Rather, quite haphazardly, two gypsies had “wandered” into the office and started doing the rounds.

We hustled them out, and only too late I realised he’d taken my phone, off my desk. Apparently it was the oldest trick in the book. The kid uses the paper to distract you, all the while using it to block your view from the things he is taking. If only I spent more time reading old books, and not poorly written signs made by gypsies.

I therefore spent the afternoon at the police station filing a stolen property report.

The problem with 24-hour police stations, is that they are open for 24-hours. There is technically no time limit on the amount of time you can wait to get served. This afternoon I had time to resew three buttons onto my jacket, and engage in a conversation with someone who’s just come back from Barcelona. (Have you ever enjoyed hearing about someone’s trip to Barcelona? I still haven’t.)

Finally the policeman ushered me in. I recounted the details, the first hurdle I hit was ‘Gypsies’. Was it ok to say this word, or would I cause great offence?

I remember back at Victoria Police that descriptions were sanitised from 14 categories into three distinct ones; Asian, Caucasian, Aboriginal, as well as ‘other’ – which was the catch-all description. I’m not sure how ‘other’ was ever used; you can hardly imagine the senior-conny putting out a search request for “another 40 year old man wearing jeans and a baseball cap”.

Nevertheless, the policeman happily noted “Gypsy” as the offender’s race, and we continued.

“Any specific features?”

“The young one had big eyes,” I said, stretching my eyelids up with my fingers to resemble big eyes.

The policeman looked quizzical.

I didn’t know the French for ‘bulbous’, but I did know the French for ‘lemur’. “He had ‘lemurien’ eyes,” I told the policeman.

“Lemur eyes? I like that description. I’m going to leave that in the report,” he said.

He showed me a brief photobook of known young offenders, but none looked like the boy that had stolen my phone.

If you are in the neighbourhood of the 10th, or elsewhere in Paris, be wary of any gypsy-looking lemurs:

Have you heard the Gossip? Guitars, drums and super-sized sweaty underpants in gay Paris

Crowds are for losers

If you ever lose your friends in a concert crowd, you have three options:

1. If your friends are abnormally short: look for any large circles among a crowd. You might not be able to see them just yet, but your friends are either that circle – or its a comatose guy lying in some vomit and frothy slightly while waiting for the medics.

2. If your friends are tall: look any gaps in the crowd. Tall guys hunt in packs, and no-one likes getting stuck behind them at concerts.

3. Are you friends of medium height and build? Head to the bar, and hope they’ve done the same.

The Gossip was doing a set at the Bataclan and we had tickets. I got bailed up by an earplug vendor at the entrance and got left behind by the others.

“I know your face,” he said.

He looked entirely unfamiliar.

“Have you been travelling anywhere recently?”

This sounded like he was desperately fishing for ideas. I reeled off an unlikely – but true – list of recent journeys. “St Petersburg, Italy, Montpellier, Sweden,” adding “Beirut“ for good measure.

“Tahiti?” he countered.

Tahiti? Did I look like Paul Gauguin?

“I know! I worked with you over summer.”

This was pretty extraordinary. Given that I only work with 40 or so people, I probably should have recognised him. At least I can rest assured that if I ever quite the logical progression to take is a gig selling ear plugs on commission at concerts.

But I wasn’t here to listen to stories from his summer, I was here for the music.

Noel Fielding’s bastard child (or maybe he has one??)

By this time the first act was well and truly in the midst of their set. The singer looked like the love-child of Freddie Mercury and Noel Fielding – who in turn looks less like a guy I used to live with in Sweden.

Their ‘act’ consisted of the ’singer’, who paced backwards and forwards getting as much mileage out of his funny looking hat as possible, the guitarist, wearing a tie-dye shirt he’d likley borrowed from MGMT, and the drummer, who relatively happy to hide behind a huge cap. Yet still most of the music seemed to be generated by someone off stage. But no matter.

Their music was similar to the popular scaled-back electro pop of the moment – think La Roux.

“Who was the support act?” I asked some guy during interval.

“I don’t know. They are selling t-shirts, you could check the name there.”

He gestured to a guy standing on the first level.

“So you’re telling me their name is ‘Meltin Pot 06 Hurricane Piranha’?”

“I don’t think you saw the right t-shirt.”

But there was no mistaking The Gossip when they took to the stage. The drummer, bassist and guitarist first. It started with a persistent, dull thud. It was like in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex is approaching and causing the water in the cup to ripple.

She’s approaching!

“The singer’s approaching,” said Marie. The singer of The Gossip, Beth Ditto, is as famous for being obese as she is for being homosexual and for her powerful voice.

She didn’t arrive with the rest of the band, but when she did there was no mistaking her. Short, enormous, a shock of red hair, a black fascinator and a large sheet-like t-shirt. And when she started to move – for The Gossip music very much makes you want to move – she was an unstoppable force.

In fact, given the energy with which she moved, she must work really hard to keep her figure. The crowd too, moved. A lot.

Three songs in and it was hot. The air was hot. Turn the down lights off, the drummer gestured. Beth Ditto had a different solution. She pulled out an enormous pair of white underpants from somewhere and wiped the sweat off.

Another song in and she was still too hot. So she whipped off her t-shirt. She now stood before us, for all to judge, wearing a underpants and a singlet. There’s something eternally attractive about someone entirely comfortable in her own skin.

Mid way through the next song, she was marching up and down the length of the stage, body drenched in sweat, spraying lyrics over the first row, with the self-assured swagger of a school kid at the public swimming pool whose about to bomb the swim-school.

Same show, different gig

She paused during the next song to check the welfare of a girl in the front row – “Ca va down there? – and then gathered an ample armful of water bottles of the stage which she handed to the audience; a geste that sealed the audience’s adoration.

Even more unbecoming of a rock star, for the final encore, she climbed down of the stage and plowed through the crowd, on a musical tour of the Bataclan mosh, all the while belting “Standing in the way of control”.

In control? The crowd wasn’t – happy to be lost at once in the music.

Oh, and as for the support act, the mystery was solved on the way out. “Ssion.”

Concerts part II: Massive Attack @ Paris Zenith, 11 November 2009

A good live music concert experience is a trinity of 3 elements: sound quality, stagecraft, and not standing behind awkwardly tall people.

When Massive Attack played the Zenith in Paris last night, they pulled ticked all 3 boxes on my scorecard (even if some people behind me could only tick off 2).

Earplugs. I forgot earplugs. Ever since working in that shitty Australian bar down south, my ears ring and sometimes it feels like I am wearing a sock on one ear.

Kandy, our friend who had calmed down a lot since getting stoned two minutes ago, had found a tissue and stuffed it into her ears.

“Can I have some of that tissue,” I asked.

“What?”

“The tissue. Can I have some tissue?”

“Je ne comprends pas.”

Well of course you bloody well don’t – you have tissue in your ear and you can’t hear me properly.

During summer, I met a guy who had done an MBA and had hit on an idea he was not at all passionate about, but that he believed was going to make him rich. It was to sell deee-luxe earplugs at clubs and concerts, for $25 a pop no less, and they were going to come in a neat little box.

Good luck to him, but tissues, which come wrapped in plastic in denominations of 25, and cost about 50 cents, work just fine, with the added bonus you can discard them at leisure.

Listening to a live gigs with ear plugs is not necessarily a worse experience, but it is certainly different, and, for electronic music, often even better. The treble sounds are muted and you become much more aware of the bass. This can be good, since I find shrieking sounds unpleasant to listen to.

I snatched the tissue from Kandy’s fingers.

The genre-defying experience

Massive Attack like to say they are a genre defying group that cannot be classified. Everyone else said: “yeah, woteva, we’re going to dub your genre as Trip-Hop, regardless of how many groups are doing it.”

I say that it’s electronic, which was potentially going to pose a problem for the show…After all, when was the last time you say a decent electronic live act, not playing at a club?

The thing is that watching two skinny guys twiddling knobs isn’t necessarily that special. Hell, even the homeless man outside Monoprix was doing it last night, and that was just a one-man show.

Case in point, Justice playing the Zenith at Montpellier, 2007. Two guys, a crowded basketball stadium, and not a lot else happening. It was like watching mixed netball at high school.

Massive Attack, however, normally just two guys with a lot of friends, had no less than six on stage at any time, the number of musicians required to not just replicate their sound, but write it large for the live show.

They did a good job of it, event if, due to the tissues, the sock and the alcohol, or a combination, the notes lacked distinction. What they didn’t lack was force – each beat pulsed through like a heartbeat.

Lights go on

The lighting was effective. The showpiece was a large backboard of small leds (presumably), that flashed as bars of light, transformed into giant television screens, or screamed headlines and power words.

In fact, it was too effective. Not content making powerful music, the group had combined every song with a, not necessarily related, political message.

Hence for their opening number, the backboard started listing the price of the cost of living compared to wages, moving from the mundane to the increasingly extravagant.

Biscuits: 4 pounds

Annual wage for Ethiopian healthcare worker: 2,500 pounds*

Private jet hire in the Gulf: 375,000,000**

Getting fondled by uncle while sleeping off a Christmas food coma: Priceless!!!

In a different song, the screen displayed words such as “RAPE”, “BEATINGS”, “GREED”, “BLACK”. I think it was called “Happy Song,” or perhaps, “MIKE TYSON“.

In fact, it was tiring to look at. Tiring to either read the text or listen to the music. As a male, I cannot be expected to do both, I am told.

However, by the time, one hour later, the group performed a song that was accompanied by text representing the departure lounge of an airport, I was starting to understand the connection – I felt like I was at the business end of a long-haul flight; the moment when you’ve already watched 5 films in miniature including Transformers. Twice.

I see dead people

What was the rest of the audience doing throughout? I turned 180 degrees, and saw dead people. “I can really feel a connection with you tonight,” the singer told the audience. Was this psychic John Edward’s latest reincarnation, as an electronica musician?

How disheartening for the group, to be putting so much energy into a performance with only minimal reaction from the audience.

It was surely even less reassuring that when they finally did get an enormous repsonse, with foot stamping and all, it was for walking off stage after playing their last song.

I fished the tissue from my ear for the encore. Even if the group hadn’t played to deafening approval, they had a least been met with muted satisfaction.

* (i’m making up these figures, so don’t quote me – but those biscuits sound expensive, don’t they!)

** (I’m not sure of the currency or where the decimal point was supposed to go, but it looked long)

Live music in Paris? It’s out of order

It’s been 6 years since Melbourne band Jet sprung to international fame (and were given a lot of iPods) with “Roll over DJ”, a song heralding the death of DJs and the return to favour of live music.

Well I know that you think you’re the star
A pill poppin’ jukebox is all that you are
So tell me it ain’t that way
What’s you’re name?

Funnily enough, Jet was also the last live band I saw play in Melbourne, in 2006. And they were rubbish – full of rock star swagger and adolescent theatrics.

Last Wednesday I went to a concert at the Olympia, one of France’s most celebrated live music venues. I love live music because it’s best (only) way to see which bands were created in a studio, and which ones were created on the stage. A concert always makes you like a band more or like them less.

We were there for a 4 band concert, but primarily to see the Wave Machines, who had one hit over summer. I emphasise one, because this was clear from their live show – for the number, the docile crowd removed their hands from pockets and some even swayed, a little. Still, they are a young band and the popularity of the radio hit means they should not be prematurely written off.

Speaking off getting prematurely written off, that’s what I was interested in. I missed the second band because I was at the bar. Violens was their name, they come from New York, and yes, they’re on MySpace.

The third act was when things got interesting. It was fronted by a well-aged man – he was 10 years younger than my dad – but the ensemble was tight and they were supported by simple and effective lighting. They had a visible cohesion.

“This is Chrystal,” he announced, before launching into a song that was a hit in Australia about 8 years ago. WTF? I know this song. Who are these guys?

Then he introduced the next one as “a song we wrote with the Chemical Brothers.” The song was “Out of Control.” The audience wasn’t however, and stood passively by, hands back in pockets. If they swayed, it’s only because they too had been at the bar for the second band.

By the time the group played a song that I recognised from the Trainspotting album, I was completely confused as to who I was watching. A well-rehearsed cover band? Their name, Bad Lieutenant, I’d never heard of.

The fourth band, headlining, was Bat for Lashes. They had great stagecraft, and a great sound quality. But you know what? The music made me want to slit my wrist.

I went home early to check the identity of the mystery band. It was New Order, pioneers of rave music,  as seen in 24-hour Party People.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Samson and Delilah in Paris: I haven’t seen indigenous hit like this since Once Were Warriors…

Coming soon...

Samson and Delilah will open here this month.

Maragaret and David said it was a hit (5 stars).

Cannes Film Festival said it was a hit (First Film prize).

Even Andrew Bolt, whose opinion is generally regarded as worth less than blog it’s printed on, mumbled that it was a hit – if for different reasons that every other member of the Austalian public.

Last week I attended an advance screening. After watching it, I can agree: it’s certainly a hit – in fact, I haven’t seen indigenous people getting hit like this since Once Were Warriors, 15 years ago (incidentally, my Swedish friend thought that film was called “The Ultimate Warrior”, and once described it to me as “you know, that New Zealand action film”).

In Samson and Delilah, the lead characters are hit by sticks and stone, fists and by fury. He hits his brother in the head with firewood, then he hits the road.

She gets hit by a car, and he doesn’t see it because he’s getting a hit from petrol.

But in showing this, director Warwick Thornton also hits a chord…

The French perception of Australian Aborigines essentially extends to them as great painters of dots, and, follozing Baz Luhrmann’s film ‘Australia’, as  romanticized shamen (due to poor attendance in France, this latter perception hasn’t gained currency in the wider community).

Speaking at the screening last week, director Warwick Thornton discussed what he hoped viewers would take from the film, particularly in regards to its portrayal of the pervasive violence, negligence and harshness of life in Aboriginal communities – based and inspired by his own experience.

“I made this film for my own community. I’m the first Aboriginal to speak out about this,” he told the enthralled audience, peppering his speech with plenty of understated humour that didn’t quite cross the language divide.

“ This film has given viewers an insight not possible in 10 years of reporting on the 5 o’clock news. It’s amazing that we’re here in France talking about this. The message I want to give you is that maybe in Paris you’ll see people like Samson and Delilah and you’ll reach out to them.”

Thornton went on to say that he considers film to be a form of “cultural maintenance”.

“In 50 years, when we look back at the films of today, what are we going to see?”

He answered his own question. “Transformers.”

To be fair, that film was a hit too.

*I sat next to a cool Italian woman who runs a cinema blog – and if you speak Italian, tell me what she says about it.

 

Paste-ups or post-its: stick it to the man

Does the fact you do not have express permission to post your thoughts on a public wall make the act any less expressive?

In Paris, whether Graffiti is art or vandalism is no longer a debate. The question now is it how to make it profitable. At least, when the Cartier Centre and Petit Palais dedicate large, well publicised shows to the art form, that’s the message that the world’s art capital is sending.

Old masters of Graffiti come to Paris to retire. SEEN, who was bombing NY subway cars in the 70s, and has one of the world’s best known tags, now lives here, enjoying the relative anonymity. I met him at a show he was part of at the Gallery Lamoure last month. With his wavy silver mop, he looks like an older version of Xavier Bardem in last year’s Woody Allen – except he’s covered in evil tattoos, including skeleton fingers and a dotted ‘cut here’ line around his neck.

SEEN was an early influence on the Australian artist Reko Rennie, who returned home to Melbourne last week after a three month art residency in the Marais.

Art is about expressing an idea. For Reko, his work could be seen as a modern take on the Aboriginal identity, a reinterpretation of the art painted on Australian rocks 40,000 years ago. Aboriginal art is well known in and rather popular in France, but is limited to the classic dot paintings.

Reko’s trademark is stencils of Australian flora and fauna. On his last night in Paris, I joined Reko as he put up some pieces in the marais area. Reko specialises in paste-ups, which are pre-made stencils sprayed onto poster paper, which he then adheres to public walls using wallpaper paste. The advantage for graffiti artists is that the penalties are less severe than for straight up paint on wall.

Thus, in the space of 20 minutes, I watched him paste up a giant 3-metre echidna, and a booming 2-metre pink kangaroo. One week later they are still there, and passers-by give them equally looks of ambivalence, bewilderment, and appreciation.

Earlier in the week, he painted a blue-breasted wren on the wall at the famous Belleville Zoo graffiti area. He had found a clear space, and painted it on a catching green and pink wavy background, the overall work measuring about 3×3 metres.

One man's wall art is another man's blank canvas there for the taking.

I went to find it four days later, but found only that someone else had painted their own design over it – some sort of alien creature. I’m sure it bore special significance to the artist.

In any case, there’s a lot to be said for the instant gratification of expressing your thoughts on paper, then sticking it, up large, in a public space for all to see. This morning when I became infuriated at my local bank, I knew there was only one recourse.

I had tried to withdraw money at the branch, only to find it was “closed unexpectedly.” Infuriated -and broke- I knew what to do. I stormed over to the newsagent across the road, and together we drafted a note.

Thank's for the advance warning. You're completely unorganised, as per usual.

Reko’s modern take attracted interest from some gallery figures, and he will return here in March 2010 for an ‘official’ show. Meanwhile, you can check out the alien artist at the Belleville Zoo graffiti zone in Paris – but be quick!

Electro night at the museum

The first time I’d see Night at the Museum, it was starring Ben Stiller and some dinosaurs.

The only thing I’ve seen less funny to date is this Malaysian (?) version of ‘Night at the Museum’, hosted by a certain Mister Tukul.

Having thus experienced how the Americans and Malaysians approached the concept of ‘Night at the Museum’, I was interested to see the version francais.

On Saturday, the museum of Arts et Metiers (arts and trades), held a soiree eclairee, an illuminated evening, featuring a lights show throughout the permanent collection of the expansive and unassuming building, and a set by 9 electro DJs in its enormous chapelle. Electro night at the museum: this was going to be interesting.

I deposited my coat at the cloakroom, fishing out of my pocket a pair of black leopard skin tights that Marie had just returned to me.

“Can I cloak these as well?” I asked the cloak attendant. “The last party I went to was  a sado-maso, and my friend just gave these back to me.”

The attendant hesitated a second, before replying, “Sure, you can just put those in the pocket.” Then added for good measure, “Are you sure you’re at the right party tonight?”

We were ushered into a lift with a woman decked out as an airline hostess – all the staff were, as the theme was ‘Voyage’. Whatever. In the lift, there was a paper sign that read: “Don’t forget you’re in a museum. Thank you for respecting the location.”

Well, excuse me, but you guys are the one hosting an electro party here! We’ll provide loud music, but don’t talk above a whisper.

“Does this mean I should get an audio guide?” pondered Sophie. Now that could be interesting, the museum equivalent of an iPod party – a room full of people standing with audio guide to ear, collectively swaying to someone recounting the history of the phonograph.

The lift dropped us on the first floor, which was effectively a room dedicated to photography and sounds recording equipment from the 1890s.

Once in Madagascar I walked one kilometre through a swamp full of floating zebu turds to get to a nightclub. This time I was being made to traverse 120 years of audio history. I rolled up my trousers – this could get dirty.

The museum collection was actually rather impressive, it’s just that we were there to party, not to learn. Arriving at the chapelle were the electro concert was, it was the first time I’ve seen more photographers and filmmakers than legitimate guests at a party. Meanwhile, the queue outside the museum was stretching around the street corner, and they were getting rowdy.

We made the most of the fact that for surely the first time in Paris’ history the line for the bar was shorter than the line for museum entry. We ordered the first of several extremely weak vodka apples.

After three hours the novelty of drinking alcohol other than red wine in a church had worn off (as for the weak vodka apple, there was virtually no effect to wear off). We retrieved our jackets, handbags, leopard print tights, and left. We were then confronted with the next problem: the waiting crowd had grown riotous, and were rocking the imposing iron gates with a certain fury.

This video is the closest thing I have found on the web resembling the ambiance that greeted us. If you look carefully, you can see Marie and me sureptiously sneaking away to our house, just 5 mins away.

Bikini waxing lyrical: a Too-Much-Information (TMI) story

“Let’s go some place quiet; I have a too-much-information story to tell you,” said  a girlfriend at work.

“It involves a bikini wax.”

If the promise of a TMI wasn’t a good enough reason to duck out across the road for a quick coffee, then the jumper that the girl opposite was wearing definitely was. It was mustard in colour, and, authentically, looked like it had been squirted on.

Another reason was that the agency is constantly hiring, and the open plan room is full of hopeful applicants arriving and departing with the regularity of someone on a high-fibre diet.

My friend led me across the road to a place where we all usually go for a beer on Friday nights. It’s a small bar, le Renouveau, which means, the Revival. It’s a fitting name, as most people who drink there seem like they are on life support.

It is run by some charming North Africans who know all our names, and don’t hesitate to insert them into every sentence, heightening our shame at having forgotten theirs.

With a coffee in hand, I asked my friend what the story was.

“Well, I don’t want to say it here at the bar, in front of all these men.”

She had a point – it was 3pm, and the local gamblers had descended on mass to watch the trots on tv.

Instead, we sat down outside and she launched into her story.

It had taken place at a bikini waxing parlour earlier in the week. She started to describe how the beauticians at the parlour have a new method of waxing their customers’ hard-to-reach places.

“They usually do it like this…” she said, gesturing putting her legs over her head.

At this point I saw in the corner of my eye two French colleagues and a job applicant heading towards the cafe. Sometimes when it’s too noisy at the office – often – they do job interviews at this very same cafe.

Undeterred or unaware, my friend continued: “But this time they asked me to lie on my stomach and spread my cheeks right open!”

To emphasise the humiliation she had felt, she stood up and gestured the spreading of butt cheeks, towards the inside of the bar.

The drunkards were too busy watching the horse race to notice. Not so the approaching French colleagues though… I turned around just in time to see them doing a double take, then usher the hopeful candidate quicklu on to a more convivial destination.

Paris you haughty bitch

Haughty Paris - not you, the city! (courtesy Megan Cullen)

It’s not often you hear “Paris is a haughty bitch” in reference to the city and not the celebrity. But why not?

An Australian friend who’s recently spent time in Paris – again the city, not the celebrity – came to this conclusion after a brief visit to Berlin and London.

She’s been in Europe with her partner Reko, a journal-artist here on an arts scholarship to further his stencil work (so far he’s put work up on the Berlin Wall, in Brick Lane, and soon, Belleville).

“Paris, she knows you’re going to come to see her, no matter what she does. She doesn’t have to try to be likeable,” my friend explained. This impression may have been tainted by the fact she’d spent the day in Montmartre.

By way of comparison she offered Berlin:

“Berlin is like a reformed con. The people are really open, friendly, they want to push a good impression on you. You know it had a bad history, but it’s changed and it wants you to know it.”

I didn’t ask her the impression she had of London. But if I could choose a personage for the English capital, I would probably suggest it’s like your alcoholic uncle at Christmas: It’s drunken, it’s good fun, and at certain moments, also very touching.

Paris: You can't buy her love, but you can buy the t-shirt (megancullenphoto.blogspot.com)

PS, Megan is now living (and working) in Berlin – she’s keeping her blog regularly updated.

A lunchtime conversation break

Lunch in France: That two hour window when office workers leave their desks and emails to bitch about worklife outside of company premises.

Today, however, six of us managed to steer the conversation into other spheres.

Films

Have you heard about The Box?

The plot is this: One night, a poor family receives an unexpected parcel that contains a buzzer, not unlike that used on TV game shows such as SAAAAAAAAALLLLLEEE of the CEEEEENTURY. They are told by a man with half a face that if they push the buzzer, two things will happen:

1. Someone in the world will die.

2. They will receive a sum of money.

“So what’s the problem?” asked 6t.

“As long as the person was Tony Barber,” I thought – the former host of Australia’s richest game show, ‘Sale of the Century’ (where the most you’ll ever get for pushing a buzzer is a new Hyundai).

(At the start of this episode, Tony informs us that the night before, Ian chose NOT to take the kitchen!! I’m not sure what’s worse: Tony’s glasses, the co-host’s dress, or the banter between them  at the 1″42 mark.)

Football mascots

Did you know in America there is a hockey team called the Washington Redskins?

Every game you go to is a massacre.

“It would be like if you had an AFL (Australian Football) team called the Aborigines,” our New Zealander freelancer helpfully contributed.

As a New Zealander, he knows a thing or two about obscure mascots. The symbol of the New Zealand Air Force is the kiwi – a small, flightless bird that shares it name with a piece of fruit. Fruit has never sounded so harmless.

After this brief foray into talking about things outside of work, everyone decided that discussing work was probably a safer, more politically correct subject, and our conversation returned back to business as usual.