Chaos. Stupidity. Luck.
The purple goblins of the ad agency, gathered around the buggery pole, complete with burning tire, in a magic clearing in the mythical emerald forest. Wankers. They've just milked the last quarter's profits and are enjoying a fatted feast of pork and wine followed by a big bag of cocaine. No one else gets invited, so things get a bit spurious.
Like an Aesop's fable, this painting could be called 'the Chillum and the Match'. It's to remind those belligerent authority types that in reality they are little more than a stinking smoky dope pipe, ranting away at a matchstick. This painting would be most suitable for the smoking lounge in a five star hotel where all too often the conversations are gloated and more often than not, utterly boring.
Saturday night, sometime back in 1971. Some guy walks out of The Colonel's with his bucket of heavily fried chicken. A VW Kombi waits in the car park. A V8 Cougar rolls down the strip. A very ordinary scene, reduced down to the scale of a Hot Wheels set. I was there. This was my neighborhood as a kid.
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