Come see Cosi. NOW.

Alright then mein kindelah of the korn, this is my last measure to let all y'all who don't already read your e-mails or the bulletin board or my phone calls to inform you that Tony's play is fast approaching. Are you prepared??

Come and see it! I play a mental patient, that's reason enough to want to, I reckon. And be sure to tell everyone you know, because I want at least one sold out show. Gimme that much, pleeeeeeeeeease.

Heidelberg Theatre Company presents Cosi
December 8, 9, 13, 14, 15 & 16 at 8.15 pm
Enquiries 9457 4117
36 Turnham Avenue, Rosanna
All tickets $10
(strong language, even stronger acting)

If you come, I may even reward you with a blog. Iffin' you're lucky, that is.

Randumb

In more of an effort to clear the clutter that is my room (and life), I thought I'd dictate a little something I wrote for university to you. It makes about as much sense as a veal chop becoming Olympic gold medallist. In other words, it could happen, but it's not likely.

Stalling slightly, Koushun Takami ponders what exactly it is he is to be writing about. He isn't too sure, yet all the same pen hits paper much as it would when writing up a new novel, only with less focus and more potential abiguiety.

He wonders where his inspiration lies, and why exactly it is that he can't dance for a lick of salt. He peers at the newly formed sentence... inspiration lies.

How true. Many times prior he had scrambled to put a great new idea out there, only to find himself immediately disinterested with it. The very notion of a good idea, false. And so, he returns to an ongoing period of deep thought, waiting for that one piece to fall into place.

Damn that last piece. Never where you want it to be. Despite the efforts of hundreds of other pieces, without the last one there's just a big empty space, and your Donald Duck puzzle ends up missing an eye.
One-eyed duck... I wonder if a pirate ever had a duck? What would he call it? Takami-san would be inclined to name it 'Alone', because it is no doubt a lonely life for a pirate duck.

He now stops on his tangent, and thoughts turn lightly toward more relevant things around him. He is a keen observer of his surroundings, yet all the same, he prefers to create his own. If he could, he would place a big grey concrete wall right in front of him. He isn't exactly sure why, but he figures it could come in handy.

Nobody ever questions math anymore. Why is every mathematical equation considered fact? Because one day some wiseass made it so? The people around me question this, particularly the aforementioned pirate duck. There's very little use for math in a pirate's life, particularly that of one who is also a water-borne fowl.

The crowd goes silent for a moment, anticipating the performer's next move. The performer hesitates. He is bemused because, as near as he could tell, they weren't there before. He was just sitting peacefully about his garden, sipping his tea, when BAM. Onto the stage he goes, mourning the loss of poor Yorick.

Who gives a shit about Yorick, anyway? The man's been dead for some time, and there's something unhygienic about fiddling about with his skull.

The pressure's on now. The audience wants action, dammit. The performer feels such incredible stress, he fears his face is about to split in two like a peanut. Come see the magnificent peanut man.
He considers breaking out in some freaky dance, but scraps that theory when he recalls that he dances like a zebra with haemorrhoids.

Upon closer inspection, the audience is filled with gorillas carrying heavy artillery. The performer considers warning the unassuming innocents, but can't muster out a voice for fear of having his head blown off by Donkey Kong.
The rabid gorillas are merciless. They discriminate not by ethnicity nor gender; their bullets know no identity. 12 students remaining.

Grabbing hold of the nearby scientist, the performer begins to panic. 'How will we stop the monkey madness?' he wails, to which the scientist laughs, a twinkle in his eye.
'The only way to stop the gorillas,' he replies, 'is with love.'
The performer eyes the scientist as if he was batshit crazy. In retrospect, he was batshit crazy.

Elsewhere, in the nearby watering hole, there's trouble a-brewin'.

...End note. Sorry you had to read that, kindelah.

McTrouble

Before I begin, no I don't have a reason for my current lack of substantial material of any sort, other than possession by some unforeseen African demon named Foshizzle. It isn't true at all, but it makes me giggle for typing Foshizzle, and if I were in fact to be possessed, I may as well prepare the statement in advance. As a result, this BLOG shall not really be interesting nor insightful, but if it makes two people smile, then by gum it's done its job. Yes, I am included in that duo of people, and I vow to giggle.

The city of Melbourne. A place of happiness, congregation, inebriation... and, on this brisk Wednesday evening, a place of MISCHIEF.
Joined by my partner in crime, Jessica, we had concluded that today's visit to the big city would have the noble goal of hitting random fast food places and partaking in their wares, for lack of better things to do. In retrospect, the plan really doesn't sound exciting at all. In foresight, I knew at the time that it wasn't.

Regardless, we had already hit a couple places before deciding to take our merry party toward McDonalds. Or as it shall be dubbed henceforth; Mac-------CAS! (Insert duo giggling)
We entered, having handily noted the positions of each homeless person in a two-block radius just in case we should need them for no particular reason. As soon as we hit the counter, we knew we needed food and lots of it. Why? Well, because we hadn't eaten all day, and our junk food binge had been short-lived so far. I think we had a cookie and some sweet thing from a kebab place that I've already forgotten the name of. I'll call it a kalbaflaff and leave it at that.

Our order was prompt; twenty chicken McNuggets, a quarter pounder and a Big Mac. ...Hmm, sounded more impressive at the time. And I lie, it was not prompt; I hesitated in my decision to go with the Big Mac. Foreshame, Tony.
Possessing the sustenance, I peered up at the menu above. I keenly noted that they were still hawking their cheesy Happy Meal wares, and today's selection would be of the Pokemon variety. Ho-hum, how tacky, how 1997, how childish, how droll... OH MY GOD THEY HAD CHARIZARD.

I will now admit, I get all giddy at the very mention of Charizard, simply because he's a massive angry dragon whose tail is on fire. He's everything I ever dreamed to be, and though in actuality he ranks like thirteenth or fourteenth on my list of Poke-preference (the upper echelons reserved for such legendary beasts of valour as Venusaur and Dragonite. Those are the money-mon), he was always meant to be the most utmost cool Pokemon. I mean, seriously, his trading card game card cost like $100. That's one expensive lizard.

I had previously expressed my Charizard-fancy to Jessica (probably as an off-handed remark; 'Yes I'd like a coffee, and some scrambled eggs, OH MY GOD CHARIZARD RAWR'), and she could no doubt see the intensity in my eyes.
She quickly asked how much the toy would cost on its own, and I was taken aback. Sixty years from now, though there shall be a special place in my heart for my graduation day, wedding day, and the inevitable day I win the Superbowl, they will all bow down to the day when Jessica would buy me a Charizard. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the true mark of saintliness. ...After all, it's not like I was gonna ask for the friggin' thing, I look like a twenty-six year old stoner, don't need to act like one too.

I merrily watched on with anticipation as the McEmployee sifted through her box of mystery for the Char Czar. She came back empty-handed, expressing that there were none available.
WHAAAAAAAAT?? The sign clearly stated, AVAILABLE NOW. Had NOW expired in the duration of the last couple seconds? Was the Charizard on display in the case next to me mocking me at that very moment?
I should have staged a McMutiny. I should have sent HER to St. Louis!!

She did however mention that for $2 I could have a substitute Blastoise. Jessica asked if I wanted that one, and, save for the fact that I felt like a seven-year-old who was just denied his favourite toy, I couldn't help but pity the poor Blastoise.
He's no fire-brandishing dragon, nosirree, he's a turtle with water cannons. He's like the G-rated Charizard. The Diet Coke of Charizards. What Charizard would be if he was a sissy. Whereas Charizard sits at a mighty 18 on my Poke-list, Blastoise probably occupies a conservative 35.
I was still gonna get the Blastoise, oh hell yeah, but I was gonna sulk all the same. Additionally, keep in mind that the previous couple paragraphs all happened within the span of a couple seconds, which suggests that I really do ramble on.

Before we could sit, we began a trek towards the upstairs segment of McDonalds. This here's the important part, the employee standing next to the stairs shook his head in a definitive 'no', then brandished a red band barring access to the coveted area. Those brave enough who dared go past these would then be confronted with four chairs aligned perfectly straight behind them. This dude seriously didn't want us to get into his McClub.

Dejectedly, we sat at our table, watching as the pretentious employee (now dubbed Peyton because he sucks), went on his patrol, cleaning the floor, straightening all the chairs so that they were juuuuuuuust right, and generally being a pompous young Manning.
Jessica and I felt forlorn; not only were we denied a Charizard, but we could not get into this wonderful McClub, either. The thought occurs that it might have been a Charizard-only zone, which was of course no fault of ours.
We took it upon ourselves then, to eat as messily as possible, and every time he would straighten the chairs, we would wait until he was out of sight and make them crooked. No doubt we were playing hell with Peyton's head, and making a statement of the most powerful McNature... LET US UPSTAIRS YOU MOOK.

We knew it then and we know it now, it was pretty sad of us, and no doubt the security cameras would reveal us as the guilty party of this heinous chair-shifting. Those who witness this evidence would no doubt ask, 'Why?' I would plead insanity, I don't know Jess' excuse.
In our antics however, I believe we amused at least three people (ourselves included), perhaps lifting the dark spirits the restaurant was feeling, because of course everyone around us was also feeling the funk of Charizard-absence.

Afterwards, we arrived at Flinders Street and raced Blastoise. Yes, we raced a single toy. Leave us alone. He certainly feels expensive, I wonder if perhaps we underpaid by some $43. Not only does Blastoise run about like a mad hoon, but we amused a crazy old man who declared that we were doing 'good work', before wandering off, continuing the conversation with us long after we had left earshot. Jessica suggested we march Blastoise onto the road, and I stood aghast at this wicked McKamikaze statement. That was a $2 investment, it wasn't his fault he wasn't Charizard; he was probably miserable as it was.

Regardless, that was the long and short (mostly long, I felt) of our visit to McDonalds; I wouldn't be surprised if we're banned for life; perhaps next time we'll bring our Charizard admission and gain access to the elusive McClub.
Until next time, be sure to give the nearest Blastoise a hug, and if you spot a Charizard, tell him Tony's waiting.

Vic Uni: a precursor

I was cleaning today as I do every now and then, primarily because I'm running out of room and mice are eating into everything that isn't safely stored away, and amongst the broken action figures, Pokemon stickers and discarded proposal to assemble a fictional bobsled team, I came upon the notes I had scrawled down prior to my initial interview for the performance studies course I am currently undertaking with Victoria University.
It can be keenly noted from my profile page that I have been a wee bit negative toward this course in the past (probably would be better to do that after the course's conclusion, no? I don't think it's such a bright idea to be blasting something you're currently involved with... if I get a bad mark this semester, I blame MySpace), but now I'm all quiet and sedated. Oughta be interesting to see what I had to write that day, sitting in that room, with that abstract performance video playing, and I soon to enter that room for the interview... I don't recall the date, but it was late 2005. I think/assume/state defiantly.

10:48 AM... Odd video. Hard to consider watching something so abstract at an hour when I'm usually not awake.
Could really go for a piss right now. Not literally 'now' and here, obviously. Might be a tad upsetting.

Questions occurred... could this be it? Should I discard the damning workload but potentially more useful journalism in order to pursue performance arts?
I feel that the biggest weakness of my acting ability has always been my bodily movements; the way I use my hands and arms to portray emotion.

Frankly, if I could overcome this, it'd no doubt come in handy in the future. On that note, it would be wise for me to track down a theatre company at some point or another and master my craft. You know Pacino started in theatre? Spiffy information brought to you by the Biography Channel.

Can I act? There's something I've been pondering lately. I can speak loudly, move flamboyantly and express dialogue humorously, but am I really capable of realistically portraying a character in a situation? If not, then no amount of 'physical movement' will help me. It could be that I'll have to hone my talent in a self-taught environment and instead focus on journalism to give myself a reliable profession.

Do I really need a university education? ...It's time to start actually doing something to achieve my goals, methinks. I've run out of school time to delay entering the workforce.

Good lord, I wish I hadn't putzed my chances of entering that acting course. If I had read the damn book and scheduled an audition in time, I wouldn't be stuck seeking an easy alternative...

Drama. ...Maybe if I had ever had the chance to try it, I would have been more willing to go one step further. Hey, maybe I could apply next year? Sure, take the year off, find some work as a freelance writer, maybe even make an early on acting... It could work.

Blam, Shamrock, BLAM!

Alright then Mr. BLOG, I'm back for another round in the ring! I've had my training, been saying my prayers and eating my vitamins... I've also been injecting a great percentage of horticultural steroids, if for no other reason than to say that I have. On the plus side, I'm healthier and more absorbant than ever before. Unfortunately though, I think I'm rapidly turning into a snapdragon. The first snapdragon of the season, as 'twer.

So I'm fresh off my post-Blackrock shenanigans (a whole week off, because I'm lazy and smell funny), and might I say, what an experience to have gone through. My big stage debut has come and gone, six nights of solid performances on behalf of my cast and my sweet self. Overall, I think it went off without a hitch.

...What is the definition of hitch, incidentally? Says dictionary.com, 'An impediment or a delay' ...Says hillbillydictionary.com, 'When your cousin says I do'.
Alas, there were no cousins being wed at Blackrock (and if there was then I wasn't invited, consarnit!) but on further reflection there were most certainly a couple hitches of the former variety...

Who here likes Macbeth? I do! Mostly because my sister studied it in year 11, so I got to read about 'shag-haired villains' and the most gripping insult ever, when one character declared another to be an egg. That's right. ...You EGG!
Just soak in that impact for a minute, if you will. Because despite your credentials, your resume and your history of success, if you're an egg, you're nothing. You're less than nothing; you're YOLK, HONKY.

For ye uninformed, it has been a popular actor superstition that the play Macbeth is, in a word, cursed. They reflect upon the history of bad luck surrounding 'the Scottish play', to the point where this eerie voodoo has broken free from its production of origin, to run rampant about the theatre and totally mess up any foo' game enough to boldly state the title of this play.
Seriously, I guess William Shakespeare can rest easy knowing the things he did for the world; he brought us Romeo & Juliet and a subsequent John Leguizamo representation of Tibalt, he brought us kickass names like Othello, Yorrick and Hamlet (if he didn't make them then I don't care who did, incidentally) and he brought us a reason to fear for our lives whenever we hear one word, in a way not unlike other cursed phrases like 'bloody Mary' or 'Paris Hilton'.

If you couldn't tell where I was going from that lengthy history lesson, then your cataracts are blinding you dear kindelah. The inevitable horror struck, tragically, on opening night.
Obviously I wasn't the grizzled six-show veteran that I am now, so as I stood there backstage in the dressing room some twenty minutes before we were to begin, I was feeling cocky, rebellious... curse envoking.
I wasn't stupid; I knew that if anyone heard me so much as mutter the offending word I would be reprimanded like the knave of hearts or Barry Bonds. I didn't want that slap on the wrist, no sirree! I had to be clever, and say it to myself, so as not to attract attention.

So I stood near the coat-hanger containing my wardrobe, took a deep, shaky breath, and whispered...
'Macbeth'.

HOLY CRAP I AM TEH EVIL!!! And did the theatre explode? No! Did a machete-wielding maniac burst in with murderous intentions? No! Did my worst fears come to fruition, and my nose fall off right there and then? No!
It seemed as though I had dispelled this whole Macbeth thing as just a foofarah, another fabrication of much foolish flippant flamboyant...

It wasn't too long before our beloved director Vlad stormed into the dressing room, declaring that the lighting panel had had a memory wipe, he had to reprogram it in roughly five minutes, and all the lighting we had gotten used to was to be forgotten entirely.
...Wow, that was a pretty big coincidence, eh? Silly me.

I knew not to press my luck by this point; it would've just been plain old rude to want to envoke any more pain upon my Blackrock brethren. Why, I even confessed my sins to da man big Rory, saying in no fewer words that 'that lighting thing was my fault, I guess. I actually said Macbeth-'
I don't figure Rory to be the superstitious type, but even his eyes widened as though a gathering of ghouls had just come streaming out of my gob. Wicked, Scottish ghosts wielding swords, quoting Shakespeare and declaring war upon the humble set of Blackrock.

Would they be game enough to strike?
Did they really exist at all?
And did I actually just say 'gob'?

The news was prompt; there would be a slight delay in the show, due to ambulance-related issues. Now call me kooky, but I didn't think that ambulances were generally associated with theatre productions, eh? Usually they aren't, but apparently when a woman standing in the lobby chooses to have a stroke, there's some ambulance involvement.

To be blunt, she was smuggled from the building without much fanfare, allowing us to start the production as planned. That is, if by 'as planned' I mean that we got to fight against the horrors of the new lighting, then yeah, 'as planned' it was. Always nice to have my big stage debut in the dark, where from the neck-up I mysteriously disappear from the audience's view. Perhaps it was symbolic; Stewart had cursed the play, it was only right that he should go on BEHEADED.
...In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if soon after posting this blog, the police burst in through the window and hauled me off to the stony lonesome for 'reckless use of the Scottish play'.

On the plus side, subsequent nights went a lot better. There weren't many mistakes involved (and none by myself of course, other than poor acting and post-Macbeth stigma), though a delightful little variation on the dialogue thanks to old Will did provide an interesting change of pace. Evidently, by Wednesday he had grown sick of the line 'Shame, Blackrock, shame'. And who hadn't? Why, we had all grown sick of some of our lines by then, lord knows that I would've preferred to have just told Toby to pipe down or I'd give him a backhand by night two.

Actually in all honesty, Will just had a mental lapse and declared to the world 'Blam, Shamrock... BLAM'.
Upon saying this, there was an almighty cheer. For though my foolish mistake had been malicious in its nature, Will became a hero to all for giving us a good story to tell to our children and our children's children for years to come.
...I mean honestly, after Elise heard about my horrible Macbething she never looked at me quite the same ever again. FACT.

Thank you for reading. The preceding blog was dedicated to that little Andy Milonakis punk. Purely because he is the most annoying, castrated, condemned thing in the world, and I look forward to his future in the exciting field of unemployment.
Don't knock my Superbowl, BIYOTCH.

Advertising Campaign

A wise man once said, 'phase one: collect underpants, phase two: ..., phase three: profit!'
It's a witticism that rings all too true of all of life's endeavours. For you see, it's only when you understand the intricacies of society that you can truly be enlightened. ...For the record, I'm just inserting random words into random places now. I do have a point, just you wait you crazy diamond.

As a muscular 2% of you know, Tony's been hitting the theatre as of late, landing hisself a role in the Heidelberg Theatre's production of 'Blackrock'. Well you see, suddenly it's May 6th today, meaning that the show opens in six days. That's right, opening night is May 12th. The show runs on May 12, 13, 17, 18, 19 and 20. Just give me a buzz if you're interested and have any idea whatsoever where Rosanna is (I know at least one of my readers does). No doubt I'll be flooding your inboxes with pleas to attend anyway.

Yes, it was cheap of me to do that; use MySpace as a means of plugging my wares, but it's the way of the walrus, and walrus knows best.
...On a related note, I have no idea where my underpants are. Kinky.

Tony the drunkard

I've been 18 for a week now. Really, very little has changed in this short span of time. I go around bragging about it occasionally, I feel an aura of superiority around me (though I believe I always had that) and my passport photo looks very out of date, but other than that, not much new.

So of course, the best way to remedy this is with a night in Melbourne. A night where I essentially made an ass of myself, but t'was all in good fun.
I suppose it couldn't have been that bad; I didn't drink too much, and I woke up at 10 AM this morning devoid of any kind of hangover, but perhaps I'm almighty and immune to such things. Starting now, I'll claim that I am.

Anyway, we got to the city at about 8 PM, and already I showed my unique nature by being the only one out of my crew not to jaywalk at every crossing. The little red man told me not to walk, so wait there I did.
So we didn't get to our first bar until about 8:30. As per usual, I refused to play pool (I don't play pool in public, people might suspect me of being very bad, which is true), and instead just sat quietly waiting for my chums to buy me drinks. Hey, it was my birthday, I wanted to be a freeloader.

It started with bourbon. In my (now) expert opinion, bourbon tastes worse the more you drink it. Regardless, I downed two of those one after the other, but made sure to keep track of how much I was drinking through reminders on my phone. I have no idea why I had the foresight that night to keep track of things, but Phil declared me the most organised drunk he's ever met.

After bourbon #2 (immediately after, of course), it was onto the beers. Halfway through the first beer I was starting to sway, and I'm mighty disappointed. I wanted to have the reputation that I could drink anyone under the table. I couldn't get drunk yet!!
My motor functions were inhibited, but I was still thinking clear, rational thoughts. I decided that as long as I remembered the Japanese phrase I was currently learning; 'ego ga hanasemasu ka', I was still sober. Funnily enough, I never did forget that phrase all throughout the night.

It was after my second beer (a pitiful tally of four drinks) that I made a reminder in my phone that I was drunk. The most obvious indication that I was drunk was that I had been playing pool for several minutes without even knowing it. Needless to say, I was not winning.
9:43 PM, I wasn't quite sure what the difference was between pool and volleyball, but I triumphantly downed one ball, which meant I didn't have to drop my pants and run around the table. See? I was a winner already.
And for my winning efforts, I would be rewarded with bourbon #3 and a vodka. Tragically, that was the last that I would be drinking that night.

After downing both drinks, I couldn't quite figure out where my posse had gone off to, so I just waited out the front of the bar in the pouring rain for a little while, because it seemed like a good idea. A fight broke out nearby, and I just chuckled and pointed in a drunken stupor. They didn't seem to like that much, but fortunately at 10:23 Dom appeared out of nowhere and lead me to where everyone else had gone. Just next door to the strip joint, of course.

Yeah, I went to a strip joint. I'm just as classless as anyone else. Honestly though, I could hardly tell I was there. I had to get Dom to fork out the $10 entrance fee from my wallet to get me in, and I stumbled up the stairs and sat down in front of the stage where ladies were undressing themselves for purposes of local arousal and entertainment.

I can't believe how much it didn't interest me at the time. I mean, I was at a strip joint, I was supposed to be having a ball! I wasn't bored or anything, but I could hardly tell what the young lasses were doing. I just clapped like a stooge and occasionally shouted 'yaaaaaaaay!!'
By this point, one of the strippers who wasn't working the stage at the time walked up with a jug in her hand filled with cash and, in a kind voice, she asked me for money.

I don't have much experience in the field of dealing with strippers, particularly while inebriated, so I legitimately thought I had to give her money because she asked me.
'I've only got twenties and fifties,' I told her, in what may have been the least wise statement to make to a stripper.
'Give me a twenty and I'll give you ten change,' she offered.
At this point, I thought, what a bargain!! I whipped out a twenty and got two fives in exchange. She kissed me on the cheek and walked away. Alas, only now do I realise that the bargain price of $10 was paying for... well, nothing, really. I guess it made me seem more polite?

Regardless, I had to take a whiz. My bladder was filled to the brim and I needed to make room for more alcohol, so I walked up to another stripper to ask for directions to the toilet.
Now, let me stop right there. It was a very small strip joint, it only would've taken two minutes to find the toilet. Additionally, I could've asked any random dude standing around, but no. I had to ask one of the strippers for directions.

'Excuse me miss,' I said, trying my best to appear slightly intellectual, 'Can you tell me where the toilet is?'
'Yes,' she replied with a sly smile on her face, 'But first, won't you give me a tip?'
I thought hard on this one. Hadn't I already done this before? I wasn't going to fall for this again...
'I've only got fifty cents,' I claimed, 'I reckon it'd be kind of cheap if I only gave you fifty cents.'
'Yeah it would,' she said, pouting, 'Are you sure you've only got fifty cents?'
'Naaaah,' I admitted. I couldn't lie to this wonderful stripper anymore. She was my friend now, right?
She looked at me for a couple seconds, before stating, 'You're a really nice guy, you're so innocent. You've got childish eyes...'
'Well I only turned 18 recently!' I blurted, and to that she smiled and I was rewarded with another kiss on the cheek. That sold me. I had to give her money.
'I tell you what,' I said, reaching into my wallet, 'I won't remember this in the morning, so I'll just give you $20.'
She accepted my generous offer, and in retrospect, it might've been a $50 bill. I only assumed it was a twenty because I said it was, and it felt suspiciously similar to $20. The fact that all dollar bills feel the same was irrelevant.
In any event, she pointed me in the direction of the toilets. I grabbed her by the shoulders, smiled a big smile and said,
'I wish you the best luck and hope everything works out for you. You have a wonderful night.'

I stumbled to the toilet, looked in the mirror, then at my friend Luke who was nearby. Sadness in my voice, I stated the fear that was surfacing in me;
'Luke... I think that stripper just robbed me.'

After this, Luke took my wallet away from me, I headbutted an SUV and we went to Crown casino. I shouted to various passers-by how I had just spent $20 on directions, proceeded to lick Luke's cheek while he was playing roulette, and was kindly asked if I could leave the casino. I did without question, and we went to KFC where I threw chicken bones around and ate a tub of potatoes and gravy that somebody else had left on their table.
On the negative side, I have no idea who had left the potatoes in question and what they might've been doing to it beforehand, but on the plus side, those were some damn good potatoes.

By 3 AM we found our way back to Melton, where I spent the night in Dom's mother's bed. No, she wasn't home at the time, but I had quite an interesting dream where I got killed and was reborn as some bizarre, Matrix-ripoff dude who could jump long distances and would have to save Disneyland. And yes, in my dream... I did pick up. So at least I had picked up in some random capacity in my little adventure.

The moral of today's tale? It's better to be a poor drunk than a rich drunk. Even people I didn't know on the bus home were laughing about how I got ripped off by a stripper, man.
And no, I'm not usually such a sleazy fellow, bouncing from bar to strip joint, but if you'd like to think I am, I'll accept your claims. After all, I've got my first day at university tomorrow and I don't think that'll go too well, so it's obvious I'm none too bright.

I did learn that everything is a lot more amusing when you're drunk, though. It was the first time I had gotten drunk since 2002 (when I put a four-year ban on for getting suspended for drinking on school grounds), and apparently, I'm a lot of fun to be around when I'm blind.

...Next week, I hope that the stripper will give me a refund.

Slight detour problem

DISCLAIMER: Today's topic will contain complaints, mathematical equations and lines stolen shamelessly from Blackadder. Thank you for your time.

So, who here likes walking? ...Aww come on, you know you love it.
Personally, I enjoy a good walk every now and then. It keeps the mind sharp, the lungs healthy and the buttocks firm. Gotta watch those buttocks.

I'll often sacrifice the chance to drive because I'd prefer to walk somewhere (the fact that I can't drive is irrelevant), so I can nod a friendly hello to the passers-by and pick up each and every lucky penny I come across. They're particularly lucky in Australia, seeing how pennies went out of circulation a long time ago, y'know.

Anyway, the point of today's lovely little BLOG is to express my enthusiasm for walking long distances. Though many who read this will no doubt scoff at my plight, I feel that it was a most interesting journey indeed.

In order to be prepared for the start of university on Monday, I thought I might as well spend today (this sunny lovely Friday) going to the uni from the station in Footscray, seeing how much time it takes and making sure I don't get there late. It's better I find out now before classes start, eh?

So I awoke at 7 AM. Anyone who knows me well knows that Tony waking up at such an hour is like a dog who speaks. Very rare.
I quickly went through my morning routine, knicked off to the local train station and, along with Rob, Mick and Steve, caught the 8 AM train to Footscray. I was enthusiastic at the time, and Tony being enthusiastic at such an hour is like a dog who talks Norwegian - even rarer.

I'm miserable with directions, you know. I can hardly remember where I am right now let alone where my university is, so when I peered over at the sign that stated that a bus would be going to Ballarat Road, in all my wisdom I concluded that Ballarat Road leads to uni. Onward, to BUS!!
I got on the bus through the side entrance and got scolded by the unfriendly bus-driver for doing such. I suppose he thought I'd had intentions to hide in the completely empty vehicle without paying. That'd be that camoflague of mine that everyone's always talking about, eh?

The delightful bus-driver took me along Ballarat Road, and I looked down at my watch. It was around 8:35; classes would start at 9 if I had any.
Each stop we went past was another place I was unfamiliar with. I watched on as a trio of goths boarded, an old woman muscled her way through the throng specifically to get off first, and I think the bus-driver tried to kill me with his thoughts.

Regardless, it was around ten minutes later when I thought to myself, 'Ballarat Road is very long.' I got off the bus at some random station and walked into the florist, where I was informed that Victoria University was indeed on Ballarat Road... in the other direction.
Huh. Interesting.

So bravely, I treaded in the direction specified by the florist, and later a Holden dealership when I had forgotten. It took... longer than I had expected. 7.78 KM longer.
I got to the University, then decided I should see how long the tram would take to get there. Seeing how the tram was being a bit of a bastard and wasn't coming anytime soon, I followed the tram line into the heart of Footscray. Quite the interesting place. All sorts of delightful hobos wandering about, motorists who were out to kill me, and 86% of a population that spoke Chinese.
And of course, I know absolutely nothing about the Chinese language whatsoever. I think there's a Mandarin in there somewhere. Regardless, it meant that directions were not very helpful.

I finally got to the end of the tram line, and to my astonishment and horror, where was that located? Why, just outside the Footscray station. A couple feet away was the bus stop where I had caught the bus that had lead me the wrong way in the first place.

My commentary was colourful, and people around no doubt thought I was insane as I stood there in the street, laughing at the irony. In my defence, it was 35 degrees celsius, man.
I took the tram back to the uni and checked my watch. 11 AM. I had been walking about for two and a half hours... best not to do that on an actual school day, then.

The interesting thing here was that by this point my brain was playing funny little tricks on me. Off in the distance, I could see Melbourne. And I thought, that's not that far to walk, right? Footscray Park to Spencer Street? Twenty minutes, tops. Suuuuuure...

The following journey was quite excellent. In the direct sunlight, I walked through several townships, ended up in Moonee Ponds for no particular reason, and started talking to pigeons along the way. They did not talk back.
Walking from Footscray to Moonee Ponds is about 3.62 km in a car. On foot, I'm just going to go right out and times that number by three. Yessiree, I don't care how factually wrong that is, it was 10.86 km by my count. I had to take several random turns through completely unrelated places to get there, various dank alleys and drug districts, I should've died twice along the way, no doubt.

After walking... a lot, I realised that there were a whole lot of 'Melbourne' signs about, but not any of the Melbourne that I'm familiar with. Where were the stores? Where were the tourists? Where was my overpriced coffee, dammit?!
...I was in North Melbourne, apparently. What's in North Melbourne that isn't in the central business district? A lot of nothing, it seems. I had been duped. I was in 'pretend' Melbourne with very little sanity left intact. I now blamed Rob for this; he's the one who told me to catch the 410 bus several hours ago. I'm sure that's related somehow.

By the time I got to Spencer Street (by tram, mostly) I was drained of all life. I just wanted to go home, and as I made a final walk from Spencer Street to the Southern Cross Station, I recalled something interesting. I had a train ticket in my pocket that would've taken me from Footscray to the city in about eight minutes.
Excellent! Excellent indeed that it was now 2 PM, I had a sunburn with the size and perhaps population of North Dakota, and I was too dead from heat stroke to reach out and strangle the person next to me.

So what was the point of this story? That it took me five and a half hours to do something that should've taken ten minutes. I like to take my time, I suppose.
Allow me to convert all of these funny little figures here...
1. Several hours in the direct heat of 35 degrees Celsius equates to 95 degrees Farenheit. I think. I suppose.
2. A brisk walk of 24.4 km with little to no resting time is equivalent to 15.2 miles. Not quite 500 miles, then.
3. Australia has no pennies. We used to have a two-cent coin, too. It had a lizard on it. I like lizards.

So yeah. I'm pretty much dead. It's... not that great.

McValentine's Day

Valentine's Day. What is Valentine's Day, exactly?
To the best of my trusty old recollection, Valentine's Day is a time where we confess our love for someone whom we feel affectionate toward. A time when all inhibitions are thrown to the wayside, and we take that fleeting opportunity to look our object of desire in the eye, take a deep breath and say, 'Will you be my sweetie pie?'
Alternatively, it's just one of those days when you give a shoutout to everyone in the hizzy so that they feel spiffy, fo'nizzy.

'k. Couple things. First off, no, nobody actually does say sweetie pie anymore. It's like against the law. Second, one of these days I will stop saying hizzy. Today is not that day. And yeah, I know it's not quite Valentine's Day for everyone yet, but it is in Australia, so all you crazy northern hemisphere-type people can just assume I live in the future. 'cause I do. Kinda.

For years, Valentine's Day has been for me what most other days are. An opportunity to watch couples give each other dandy little gifts representing their love, while I scoff and nonchalantly dismiss the notion that people actually need an official day to care about others. Personally, I prefer St. Patrick's Day, because you get pissed and tell everyone you love them anyway.

It's not to say February 14th means nothing to me, however. No, that couldn't be further from the truth. Today is a very special day, a momentous day when I too may express my gratitude toward someone important.

TODAY IS STEVE McNAIR'S BIRTHDAY.

Yaaaayyyy Steeeeeeeve! It seems that, in some unique way, every Valentine's Day is a chance for me to celebrate in my own special way. So I'd like for everyone to take just a moment of their time on February 14th to remember... Steve cares.

And as he does, I hope that everyone has a safe and happy McValentine's Day. Especially Sarah, who kicks ass for sending me a message. I read it when I was like halfway through this blog so I had to make things cheerier midway in. lol

So be sure this day of love, respect and McNair, to let somebody know you're thinking of 'em. Be that a mysterious love interest, a good old pal, or that monster RIGHT BEHIND YOU (aah!!), it's always nice to show you care.

Acme Looniversity

If you recognise the subject title, then well done, you're pretty much as sad a person as I am. :P

Anyway, I've been feeling a smidgen old as of late. In less than a month I'll turn 18, which means I'll be able to get up to all sorts of drinking and gambling shenanigans as well as get myself into R-rated movie theatres (because I appreciate the artistic value of such programs, I assure you).
Additionally, today was a fascinating day for me, because I enroled with Victoria University. Yup, I'm goin' to college.

Gee golly gosh, I hadn't been to the establishment since mid-November when I had the initial interview (which I passed with flying colours, being so charismatic and lovable and full of myself), but now they wanted more than answers about where I'm from and what I plan to do...
They wanted forms! They wanted tax file numbers! THEY WANTED ME TO SIGN WITH A BLUE PEN.

It's rather daunting to know that by the end of February classes shall begin, and it's back into the bloody school system for me, for three years of performance studies. Gotta pick up my bachelor of arts (also known as a bachelor of unemployment) so I can make my resume bigger, raid Grundy headquarters outside of Melbourne and gain fame as a member of the Neighbours cast.

Yeah that's right, I got a plan. Australian daytime television, man. I'll make a killing. What writer wouldn't love to have opportunity for making dialogue for an Australian character with a Canadian accent? I could say 'eh' at the end of every sentence, and perhaps even 'aboot' once or twice.

In the meantime my divine mission is to get some acting experience in the big city, hone my craft and save up money for the future. The future where, after getting some roles in local gigs and five, count 'em, FIVE Logies, I head on over to America and get an agent with sunglasses and one of those mobile phones from the early 90s that nobody uses anymore.

Then, when I'm rich, famous and have had at least three scandals, my career can take a nosedive and I can sell my teeth on Ebay. Then it's back to Australia, to rejoin the cast of Neighbours, and boom, career comes full circle.

...Yup, I sure as hell do have a plan. It's a plan that sucks, but it's a plan all the same.

A quiet week for the Tones...

Crikey, the old b-log. Frankly it terrifies me. My last entry was on December 21st, yet it claims that it was updated on the 24th. What kind of mysterious update that never happened could that be???

Anyhoosers, it's all been bewy bewy quiet up in TonyTown, as it stands I've been working out my university timetable (I have no idea what I'm doing, don't be surprised if I get booted out of uni in week 1) and studying my katakana. Didn't take long to master hirigana. And you know, I never would've thought that I would do most of my studying after finishing school.

Now then, I thought I would make the statement now, because I can type really really fast and it doesn't require much effort for me to make this statement (wee look at me type, I'm faster than a speeding individual. Zoom zoom zoom... err, yeah, anyway), VINCE YOUNG SHALL BE A TITAN.

Not really a bold statement, but I thought I would declare that now so I could be one of the millions who celebrate the Titans' draft day when Young is announced as being pick #3, or alternatively one of the millions who scream with rage at the television when Vinny is shunned by those in Tennessee, Titans get Jay Cutler, while McNair and Bulluck announce that they're going to play for the Colts from now on and my head explodes. ...Worst-case scenario.

Ooh, and I went to big Spengler's party a week ago and haven't left the house since. I kinda sat there looking witty most of the evening, because I'm a bit of a bust at parties. I get all quiet and nervous, possibly because flashing neon lights and loud noises terrify me. They don't in actuality, but it was fun to think that they did.

I ended up leaving early 'cause I was feeling lonely. Only I could achieve that, feeling lonely at a party. It's a long story, one that I shan't divulge to make myself seem more enigmatic. Either way, Erin had already spilt her booze on me, that drunkard. lo