The match

He's ranked number 11 today. 76 points to his name, multiple victories collected. He's been playing for a while, taking on each team as they come.

The other player occupies the 221st spot on the leaderboard, and he only ranks ahead of a couple of other saps by virtue of default. His first two matches after months of inactivity have netted him four points, managing two goals in two defeats.

The two will play each other in a match of soccer. The first is heavily favoured in what should be a no-contest. His opponent is unprepared. His opponent is without a strategy. His opponent is without a prayer. His opponent is me.

The best of three series begins, and I see what I'd observed countless times over my playing career. The same opposing team members. The same cheap hits. The same overused tactics. For my players, the opponents appear to be competing in double speed. The opportunities we have with the ball are far and few between, and somehow we always end up playing right into the enemy's clutches. We madly pass the ball between one another, each terrified of what would happen should we hold onto it for too long. Any hapless soul adorned in our team's symbolic red is liable to get assaulted at any moment. A punch in the back of the head here, a cruel tackle into the unforgiving fence there. Often, we are hit even when the ball isn't on us, a foul violation that we've gotten all too used to.

Our passes are constantly intercepted, and when the ball is being carried by the opponents, a pitiful game of pursuit begins. We dash about after them, but somehow they know our exact moment of arrival, and pass it on. Each attempt to strip the ball is evaded, leaving us sprawled in the opponent's tracks. The ball whizzes between their players like a pinball machine, or soaring over our heads like we were children who'd had our bags stolen by the schoolyard bully.

Our goalie doesn't stand a chance. Balls fly past him as though on fire, and at times it seems like he's defending against a barrage of six balls at once. He wouldn't be surprised if, thinking himself in perfect position to block a shot, the oncoming opponent were to clutch the ball between their feet and, with a wicked grin, leap into the air and glide right over his head, landing behind him for an easy goal.

We've become quite familiar with the members of the enemy squad. They've been on many teams just like this one, with the same cheap stunts and dirty tricks. We see these plays develop and we know exactly what they're going to do, but we are powerless to stop them.

We fall, 5-1 in the first match, and bravely take our medicine to appear, as a token gesture, in the following 4-0 beating.

In frustration and utter disgust, I take a deep sigh and end it all.

Everything goes dark.

After a moment, I stand up, and vow not to play Mario Strikers online for another couple of months. From his part of the country, the rival player will not be going out tonight with his gorgeous and wonderful girlfriend to party with friends, because he is without the former, and the small number that make up the latter will be doing just the same as him. He will play on into the night, amassing hundreds of points in a video game as though it meant something, his one escape from the real world, where he is pale, feeble, miserable and socially retarded.

He will dominate the world of online gaming, while his opponent will continue to succeed at life. His opponent is popular. His opponent is attractive. His opponent is healthy. His opponent is me.

Tony & Jess vs. the scumbags

So I suppose you've all been wondering, how did the screening of the short film go, Anthony? Well, the answer would be; it was great! ...If you love crummy delivery and poor expression. The film itself was really good, both the quality of the filming and editing, as well as the work of my fellow actors, but I was dreadful. Absolutely dreadful, I'm really disappointed... To be frank, I thought I was better than that, y'know? I'm not the harshest critic and people have told me I did a fine job, but I can't convince myself of that. It's all a learning process, though.

It was the aftermath that really gets you thinking... We left fairly early so that we could catch a train back to Jess' place (must've been 10ish, I guess?), and decided to have a snack beforehand. We went to a souvlaki place on Russell Street, and were waiting out the front for some potato cakes when a woman approaches us. She's the scummy, trashy sort, you know what I mean. Trailer trash, if only she could afford the trailer.
She asks us for money, and I'm not really into the idea. Just to see where she's at, I ask how much money she wants. Her reply? $16.
...What?? Was she serious? Not a couple bucks, she wants a whole 1,600 pennies to be laid on her. That's no chump change, nosirree! She wasn't about to get that kinda moolah from me; what did she think she was, a stripper with directions to the toilet?

I'm the generous sort though, and I realised I had $2 floating around my pocket (I was specifically aware of this because I got into a bit of a thing with the souvlaki guy beforehand claiming he short-changed me. I was mistaken. He was not happy.), and considering for a while beforehand I thought I didn't even have this money, I decided it best to pass it along. She thanked me, but didn't leave. Sign number one that this wasn't going to be good.
Jess' bag was sitting open on the table, and, as is often the case with my darling Jess, the item on top was a pack of cigarettes. Ignoring the fact that Jess is on the phone (speaking to Andrew, no less), she just asks her for a cigarette. This is quite audacious for a variety of reasons. Number one, the aforementioned phone; she's in the middle of a conversation, how rude is it to just butt on in demanding free stuff? Number two, I'd already given her about as much as I was likely to. I gave her two dollars, she should've taken a hint that that was it and moved along, if I wanted to give her a cigarette I'd have done so. Cripes, if I wanted to I'd have given her balloons and a Chinese finger trap, but I didn't want to, and as such, I did not. Number three, she appears to already have a lit cigarette in her hand. In all honesty, I could just leave it at that.

Now, Jess has this new thing that she's a big fan of, if someone gets in her grill she just takes them down a peg, rather than take their nonsense and hand out cigarettes like she's a convenience store (though I must say, if Jess actually was a convenience store, that'd be really cool. She'd make a lot of money doing that). She says simply, 'I've been asked for fifteen cigarettes today. I work hard to pay for these, I'm not giving you any.'
The woman takes a moment to process this, conversation not being one of her strong suits. Her face twists into a frown, she leans over and replies, 'Excuse me, do I know you? Why are you being so rude to me?'
Well, fair enough. Scummy woman thinks Jess is rude. We thank you for this opinion, and will consider it for future reference. Best you be leaving now, shnookums.

However, she's not going to just take her (my?) money and leave, she continues to ramble on, declaring Jess to be a 'farking' cow (she didn't really say 'farking', I'm just a nut about editing. Besides, with the way this broad butchered the English language it's not out of the realm of possibility she actually did), and she turns to walk away, but not before flicking ash from her cigarette in Jess' face.

...Oh hell no.

I did not just see that.

Time to bash this crazy bitch and take my money back.

I spring up, and start walking after her, helpfully shouting that she cannot get away with that, even when I gave her money and everything. She shuffles off into the convenience store next door, and I start walking back to my seat. Come on, I wasn't going to follow her into the shop, then I look crazy, don't I?
Fortunately Jess wasn't fazed, she was actually laughing about the whole thing. Though it wasn't quite as funny when our dear scumbag resurfaced, bringing her boyfriend out with her. Again, you know the sort. Filthy, wearing a Holden cap, and brandishing some rather unpleasant facial hair and an even more offensive odour.

He's quick to get in my face (much to my nose's chagrin) and says something to the effect of 'don't you 'farking' touch my girlfriend'. Obviously he's had this sort of experience before, she must be a real hot item around the ugly tree society. Frankly, I'm still pretty peeved myself, so I'm not backing down from this guy, meanwhile she's blathering on the sidelines with, 'She's being such a rude cow, now she's laughing on the phone! Why are you laughing, huh?' Clearly Jess is laughing because you're a freaking nutter, love, but that's another matter.
I make a witty rebuttal to the man's fury, in the form of 'Nah mate, she flicked ash in my 'farking' girlfriend's face, pal! This 'shpit' is not on.' (hehe, sometimes editing out swears is fun!)
I don't recall what his response was, something derogatory and low-brow no doubt, but his body language was rather telling. He was clearly getting in position to punch me in the face. This was troubling enough, but the whole while his scummy girlfriend was slowly approaching Jess, and she hissed something rather troubling.

'Don't you think of 'farking' throwing that at me.' I turn around, to see that Jess has a cup of Diet Coke she got at Hungry Jack's in her hand, holding it up in a defensive gesture. Jess stands, and I try and discourage this plan, but it's cut short when the woman goes to push her. Jess responds by flicking the cup's contents at her, though I had stepped in to stop this crazy bat from laying a finger on her, so of course was in the middle and ended up covered in it more than anyone else. Perhaps that was Jess' plan all along, to get me soaked so we'd all have a good laugh and become fast friends. It's doubtful, though, so I won't pursue that concept further.

By trying to separate the two, I've infuriated the guy even further, who now rumbles 'Don't you 'farking' touch her!' as though I had scooped her up, flung her through a window and lodged my thumb in her eye. I hadn't hoped to appear a woman-beater, though in all honesty I'm still not sure what her gender was supposed to be anyhow. It was on like Donkey Kong at this point, he stepped forward and it looked to all the world as though this would result with the untimely demise of yours truly, but who should step in and break us up?

Was it Jessica, brandishing not just a cup of Diet Coke, but an entire vat of the stuff? Was it the souvlaki guy, ready to put aside our differences and prior dispute over the sum of two dollars, and deliver a mighty wallop? Was it in fact Andrew, springing magically through the phone line ready to 'make it rain', as t'wer?

...Nah, I think it was the guy from the convenience store. Or a helpful passer-by, I'm not too sure. Point is, he told them to 'fark' off, and they quickly slithered away from the Coke-covered scene. He went on to inform us that it wasn't our fault (hurrah! Justice!), we'd done nothing wrong and that he's 'sick of those two scumbags. They're always asking for money, and if they don't get what they want they start 'shpit'.'
Well, that was all I needed. We were acquited of blame, free of injury, and could now rest easy with the knowledge that, if we're ever in a pinch, this bloke is liable to surface and clear things up. I'm really hopeful that that last part's true, I live in Melton, I need a guardian angel sometimes.

So that was the sum of our night, really. Some poor acting by Tony, a couple (really, really excellent) potato cakes and a damp shoulder. Though it's worth adding, before leaving the guy looked me in the eye with pure hatred, and muttered 'Stupid 'farking' American'.
Well, the joke's on him! ...I'm not American.

Get down son and/or daughter

Hop on your good feet, young things, and engage in the bad thing. Whatever could this bad thing be? There's a chance it's underage smoking. Only a mild chance, though.

You know what I hate? Looking up my name on Yahoo! or Google or whatever search engine takes my fancy on a particular day. You know why? Because I'm sick of hearing about Tony cocking his gun. Stop cocking the friggin' gun, Tony! All you do is divert search results away from myself, and this makes me sad. I enjoy looking onto the Internet to see where I've earnt any notoriety, and so far it's rather scarce (see = nonexistent). Perhaps someday I will find an entire website dedicated to me... I wonder what will be on it?

Six easy steps to training your Tony Cocking?

Horrific Tony Cocking-related tales of tragedy?

The joy of cooking Tony Cocking?

A list of reasons 'Y I H8 TONY F'IN COCCING'?

Perhaps... Additionally, I need to stop leaping into these BLOGs with nothing other than a mildly amusing title. My readers will likely stop coming if they find nothing of value. On the plus side, today I did manage to... holy crap, I was legitimately thinking for about two minutes there and came up with nothing. What a terrible day it's apparently been!

Oh dear... going to a screening of a short film featuring myself tonight... hopefully that'll calm my frayed nerves. Or make things worse, we'll see.
Here's an idea, could someone who reads this please suggest some typing material for a future BLOG? I'm getting rather desperate, will take suggestions from anyone; friends, relatives, members of the 'I H8 TONY' website, anyone...

AUDITIONS FOR THE PLAYS!

Hello there, kindelah!

The big day is upcoming for the short play auditions! I want y'all to come on down and try out for as many or as few as you'd like!

The actual production will be taking place with Heidelberg Theatre Company in December... I can't remember when, exactly. I'll get back to you on that one.

The auditions are being held this Sunday (21st) and Monday (22nd) at 7:30 pm, at the Rosanna Scout Hall, it's like a five minute walk from the theatre and the Rosanna train station. If you have any troubles finding the place, feel free to call me, if you don't have my number just ask!

Rosanna Scout Hall, De Winton Park, St. James Rd, Rosanna, Melways ref 32 A1.

The Dead Room was written and shall be directed by myself, I'm taking on the role of assistant director in Pitching Alaska (Jess playing the part of director there), and I'm likely to pop my head into the last two for one reason or another.
If you're interested, be sure to turn up, or better still, send me a message with your email so I can email you all the scripts and you can get up to speed before the big day.

Hope to see you all there! Feel free to bring any friends along, too.

~ Tony

PS. Jess has made mutterings that she'd prefer to do Pitching Alaska with American accents... not entirely necessary for the audition, but it could come in handy! ;)

The champion at pretty much everything

After a day like today, how could I not be considered the world's greatest BS artist? Today I had my final performance for a class, equating for roughly 30% of my mark, and I NAILED it, peeps. Well ok, people who were actually in the class might disagree, but in my own convoluted opinion, I was fan-bloody-tastic. The only thing it was missing was a topless finale, but David did that. And David makes me feel small. :(

In this performance, I made parallels between myself and an apple, while eating paper. Multiple sexual implications were made, audience members cringed, and supposedly there was vomiting somewhere along the way. All up, not a bad effort I say.
The winning factor in this little equation of deception would be the fact that I made up the whole bloody performance on the train in about seven minutes this morning. Though I must admit, I owe a great deal of that to mah Jess-unit, who continues to be an ongoing source of inspiration and a constant saviour of my rear.

Beyond that, not a whole lot to say. I always jump into these BLOGs with a lot on the mind, but it all dissipates after the first couple paragraphs. Oh well.

Suddenly, NOSTALGIA!

Anyone else LOVE Kirby Superstar? I haven't played it in eons (100% completion usually does that to a person), but it was an absolute gem in the realm of cooperative 2-player side-scrollin' antics.

Just thought y'all needed to know that. :D

Youth

Taking my wee dog Peppy for a walk a couple hours ago, I looked up into the night sky, took a breath of crisp air and recalled something that I kinda miss, and will never have back...
My mid-teenage years.

Thinking back to an awkward, goofy and hopelessly single sixteen-year-old Tony brings a grin to my face, as I try and immerse myself as best as I can in the memory of his surroundings. None of us drove, our work obligations ranged from simple to non-existent, and we had to make our own fun. Oftentimes, we would find this fun in roaming the streets of Melton, acting out the stereotypical role of Southy mischievous youths.

What do I remember doing? Nothing and everything, depending on the day. Sometimes we would bounce from house to house looking for something to do, I'd hit on chicks all the time without them realising (something I really don't miss at all), and sometimes, we'd get up to some wild stuff in the evening, like sneak into places where we were unwelcome, or crash parties (just by showing up, no assaulting guests, mind) or attack things with sticks, or steal a rubbish bin so we could light a hobo-riffic campfire, stuff of that ilk, before we'd retreat to the safety of whoever's house we were staying at to play Mario Kart into the wee hours of the morning.

From the years of backyard wrestling (something we were terrible at) to hours on end of video gaming... to an old favourite, playing flashlight tag on other people's property in the night and getting Matt and Michael stuck in a tree with suspicious residents seeking them out while the rest of us knicked off to go eat ice cream.

My teenage years were stupid, y'know? But that doesn't mean they weren't a blast. And as the end of my life as a teenager draws nearer, I look ahead to the world of a twenty-something rapscallion.

No more late night mischief (unless alcohol's involved).

No more carefree days putting our safety at risk for cheap kicks (again, alcohol says otherwise).

No more video games... hang on, that's not true. Still a lot of video games, just with a lot more swearing and Jessica declaring that she 'doesn't wanna be an egg!!'

I really am an easygoing young lad, you know. People around me get stressed, but I just look forward to what life brings. I celebrate the good times, and cruise through the bad times, oftentimes coming up with shifty ways to make it look as though I put in some effort along the way.
Seriously people, iffin anything's ever getting up your grill, just take a step back and say to yourself, 'things may be bad, but feeling bad about it doesn't make it better. I'm gonna have fun right now, regardless'. Eckhart Tolle says it in a deeper way, but that's the gyst you need to realise. Keep right on grinning, and you'll get through it.

Lord knows we all face adversity along the way. I have, you have, we all have. Thing is, I'm still sitting here feeling dandy as Christmas, so I say y'all should too.

Thuggin' and buggin'

'sup, wordmeisters?

I often wonder why I'm awake at midnight, downing caffeine-laden Coke Zero and boppin' to the beats of the Back to the Future theme, but I can't formulate an answer other than all the above RAWK LIKE DA HAWK.

I also wonder why I start BLOGs with nothing to say? Hmm, that's even more dubious still. Regardless, sleep will be hard to come by tonight, seeing how the Titans are squaring off against those nasty Colts on the 'morrow. How I hate those Dolts! What is it, six hours away? Why bother sleeping now? I have Paul's class for that.
Now Robot Rock is thumping out on my computer speaker, and I've just got visions of Vince running through the stumbling Indy defense, weaving and dodging like a champ. I actually pick the Titans in this one (not out of homerism, but a good feeling); if the Titans win they'll win it close (3 points and under), if the Colts win, it'll be by a lot (2 TD +). And if the latter happens, I'll be put in an even fouler frame of mind for the idiotic events I'll be undertaking tomorrow at uni.

Regardless, I may as well look onward towards my week, a fuzzy little thing where I haven't the foggiest clue what I've got planned, though I'm fairly sure plans have been made on my behalf once again, as per usual. I really need a personal planner or a wee little diary to note all my important arrangements. It's a weird concept for me, two years ago I had nothing but time, now I'm a man in high demand it seems. Not for acting reasons tragically, but simply as room filler for 21st birthday parties and helping paint sets. I work pretty hard on set painting I'll have you know, even though I'm a crummy painter.

It's a whole lotta fun just garbling out any old crap that comes to mind, back in the day any personal stuff I might've written would've been carefully screened and edited so that it sounded good, nowadays it's just a steady flow of nonsense, one Coke Zero at a time. Speaking of nonsense, allow me to dip into the Tony archives and unearth something I BLOGged out on my MSN space that nobody read (other than Atcho, because he's a darling).

This one was spouted on the 6th of January 2007, entitled 'Crappy teenage angst-like ramblings'

Look at that big, blue space right there. So empty. So unloved. I guess that means that this BLOG entry is, so far, not started. I realise that in order to remedy this, I'm required to buff it up with words. Wonderful, wonderful words... Crap, I got none. Right, let's go through my thoughts as they come, eh?

I dwell on my past fairly often, simply because it's been there and dwelling on my future sucks ass because I could be entirely wrong; for all I know I'm destined to become a human cannonball or mad scientist. It doesn't take a genius to realise that I've done more in 18 years than a fair few people do their whole lives. I've travelled, I've been through all the dramas characteristic of youth, I've been uprooted from the country I knew and had my whole world restarted from scratch. Everyone likes to think that their lives had been more interesting than they really are, and I suppose I'm no different. Does anyone care that my mom doesn't live in the same country as me? That my father went from being the son of a street-sweeper to being a one-time millionaire? That, for all intents and purposes I've tried a lot of things and never really succeeded at one? Doubtful.
That's the thing about being human, you think you're fascinating. They say the world doesn't revolve around you, but Christ, it really does, y'know. My world revolves around me, your world revolves around you, Larry from across the street's world revolves around Larry from across the street. I cease to exist, so does my world, the only world I know, thereby technically speaking, the only world there is. People are all the same, whether they love themselves, hate themselves or are decidedly self-indifferent, they adore the idea that there's a reason for being there. Personally, I am of the mindset that I've got to succeed, people have to know who I am, I've got to be remembered when I'm long gone. My life is the only thing I'm ever going to do, if it came and went without anyone taking notice, then once I'm gone I'm gone. And that truly sucks ass.

I'm pretty terrified of death. Life is so real, so... everywhere. I'd love to believe there's something after this, but what if there isn't, huh? Then I won't care. For all eternity, I won't care. I'm a corpse in the ground, I'm ashes in the wind, I'm... dead. My body's still there, it's just broken, in a sense. I can't comprehend that idea of disappearing from existence, to never ponder or question or feel ever again, to be there for every moment, yet not know it. Alright, this is just getting convoluted.

I really wish I was one of those popular BLOGgers, the kind who has like hundreds of online friends and dozens of comments. Sucks that I can't even be popular on the Internet. Ahh, the Internet presence... that ever-shifting, ever-lurking beast of a thousand faces... People don't want to read the BLOG of an 18-year-old Melbourne guy? A new e-mail address, a change of typing and a couple false photos and voila! I'm a confused lesbian trying to find her way through the big scary world. People love knowing about the lives of others, of course, it's obviously just better when it's someone unique. People watch reality television... they're watching the lives of others... and though random tasks are thrown in for the contestants to break the monotony, people would still watch if it was simply a life onscreen, albeit a dramatic one. Our own lives aren't sufficient, we want to observe and mock the lives of others, the people onscreen who are as real as us, but so distant we aren't obligated to really care. Christ, reality television. What a joke. It's in the same vain (vein?) as magazines that amass photos of celebrities walking down the street. We get offended when people invade our privacy, but don't give a shit about doing the same to celebrities, simply because 'they're in the business so they're asking for it', umm, no... They're in the business because they either love what they're doing or just want a lot of money, they don't need your idiot photographers and 'witty' observations about the kind of shoes they're wearing. It's shit like that that links to the image-conscious society we live in. We want to be seen as the very best at everything, or at least, the same as everyone else so that our flaws are hidden.

Why do we get sucked into this void of anonymity? Why can't we accept who we are, others be damned? We clamour to be accepted, like bugs to a light in the dark. We bang our heads and get dizzy, reaching for this perfection that none of us will ever claim, but do we learn? Nope, we want to be thinner or smarter or more popular. We would love to be ourselves, but only if ourselves happen to be perfect. Inevitably, that ever-changing definition of perfection will change and we will all scramble to pick up on whatever falls under that new classification. We're like lemmings, only we don't get a delightful video game series based on us.

Christ, what in the hell am I doing, anyway? Likelihood is my computer will crash before this gets posted, or someone will read this and conclude that... well, this is pretty damned weird. I guess I just needed to type. I haven't done that in a year, I kinda missed typing for no reason.

Wii! BLOG

Lying here... 1 am... waking for uni in six hours... Let's BLOG!!

To start, Titans begin the year with a big dubbleya (W) as they topple the Jaguars 13-10, so I'm riding off that high.
...And speaking of high, someone please smack that Paul moron upside the head. His 'class' is utter crap, and he should feel privileged I even bother turning up.
Hehe, my Wii thought I was gonna say utter crab. Silly Wii! ...Writing BLOGs on it is soooo time consuming.

I got drunk on Saturday, didn't leave the city until 5 am, and some hooker told me I was a bad boyfriend. I thought hookers liked me... or maybe it's just strippers? (refer to previous BLOG if need be)
Stripping is an odd profession. People take their clothes off all the time for free, strippers would be better if there was something more rewarding underneath, like lollies or important information.
If Tom Hanks were a stripper, I'd pay to see him.
All my friends would be like, 'how was it?'
And I'd say, 'Tom Hanks'

THE END. ...now go to sleep, Tony. Vampire Jude awaits you. :o

TonyNotes

Step through the crazed wavy curtains and over-excessive diatribes of my mind and retreat into a mass exodus of symphonic reaction.

Also note that I'm just piecing together random words. I figure, I can't really write worth a crap these days so I thought I'd try to throw out any old rubbish and see what it sounded like. Gave me imagery of a circus run by millionaires, but that might just be me.

NOTES!! Randomly inserted as they come to me...

1. Football season kicks off tomorrow... YIPPEE YAY YAAAAIIII!!! You can be sure that the headline matchup will see me cheering on the Saints to crush the Colts, not just because I like N'Orleans and hate Indy, but I've got Marques Colston in fantasy football this year. Dumb move? Possibly, I passed up Larry Fitzgerald to take Marques. My reasoning was I trust Brees more than Hollywood Leinart. Brees nearly took me to the promised land last year, after all (how can a fantasy team with Drew Brees and LT have fallen short?? I managed...)

2. My sweater sleeve is wet and this upsets me. It's my fault though, I put it in my bag next to a wet dishtowel that had been used earlier that day to clean up apples I had thrown against the wall. Honestly, I'm a friggin' performing genius, I ate apples, then piffed them at a wall and I'll get an HD because I rawk.

3. Should I actually watch West Side Story? Sounds like a queer question, but those finger-snapping numbers look like all sorts of fun. Doesn't matter that I dance like an injured giraffe, I want in.

4. People in Australia seriously need to listen to Our Lady Peace... They're a bit zany at times, I reckon you need to be eased into their style. I think Gravity and Spiritual Machines are the best albums to start with, then you get onto their more alternative stuff from there. As far as songs go, Somewhere Out There is rapidly climbing up my favourites list, though the top spot is still held by Made to Heal for now.

5. As I type this BLOG and whenever I go to my MySpace homepage, that headband-wearing Tony is constantly staring at me, smiling that obnoxious smile. I'm starting to really hate that prick. What's his problem, huh? STOP LOOKING AT ME!!

6. I love the idea that people are 'subscribed' to my BLOG, makes me think I should actually start posting them with some regularity. Rob gets a shiny stone for having been subscribed since 2005. With it he can fight Culex, but only if he really wants to... I'm sure there's other neat stuff you can do with a shiny stone.

7. Why is Atcho the only person who sends me Wiimails? I need more, dammit! Make me feel popular!

8. Breloom is awesome. I mean it's a mushroom boxer! Mike Tyson fungus, emphasis on the fun. Oh, and SporePunching for the WIN.

9. Why can I only get Joe Esposito's You're the Best on iTunes when I buy the whole King of Kong album? I seek neither king nor kong, I seek karate kid exclusively!

10. I know all the lyrics to A Miracle Would Happen from The Last Five Years. Put a piano behind me, and I probably wouldn't know how to time it to save my life. Anyone else think Norbert Leo Butz sounds like Eric McCormack? I'd be amazed if anyone answers this question as well as addressing point 1.

Right, I think I've been enough of a time burglar. Disperse back into the masses my children, and bring back a samich for old Tony C!

Tough guys wear glasses, too...

See? It doesn't matter where you come from or who you know, glasses are COOL.

That reminds me, I didn't actually have a point to this BLOG, either... Iffin you're wondering, I don't wear glasses. If I did, just kinda picture a thinner-looking Tobey Maguire with a less annoying voice. I don't actually look like Tobey Maguire, but I just think it'd be funny picturing him thinner. Somebody Photoshop Tobey to look thinner, please.

It recently occurred to me that my career is like the intelligence quotient of Paris Hilton, non-existent. I'm a lazy, lazy man, but expect big strides to be made soon. If not, I'll just do what Paris does and go to jail. The only difference is I'll remember to bring my GET OUT OF JAIL FREE card. Tony Mokbel wishes he had one of those, I reckon...

Hey, I think I'll get singing lessons. Because I reckon being able to sing is handy; it's a boon to any career path (other than anti-singing protester) and a damn fine party trick, to boot.

Meh, that's me out. I go back to university next week. Sucks to be me.

Buh??

Why in hell's bells have two people viewed my BLOG today? It's 1:56 am and I haven't posted a new entry in about a month. Who are these people who randomly read old BLOG entries? Do I know you? What do you think of my work? Of my headband? Of Nik Kershaw??

I have nothing of pertinence to say (nor a definition for pertinence) at the mo, though I may in a little bit - Jess' 21st birthday is a-comin', and I'm scrambling to prepare because, y'know... the whole boyfriend thing; I think I'm fairly important to that party. If I don't have my stuff together, things go bad. Real bad.

We don't want that to happen. Assuredly.

There are no cats in America...

And indeed, I assume that the children are filled with cheese!

I sit here giddily typing away at the computer, ready to relay (or parlay, since I haven't used that word today) the grand shopping escapade that dad, Jessica and I went about.
Twiddlin' me thumbs here in Australia, I often ponder the things I left behind in North America... my home... my mother... but also, my sweet, sweet candy goodness!!
Indeedy deedy, we took a drive up to USA Foods today and stockpiled on all those dandy little American products that never make it to the Aussie shore... For all ye who care (even though that might just be me and perhaps Count Chocula if he's reading), here's a list of every little thing we bought! If you're Australian, you can gasp and ponder the mysteries of these special brands. If you're American or Canadian, you can chortle with glee that these products are at your disposal all year round as you take them for granted. If you're from Jamaica... say, how'd you find my BLOG? I don't know any Jamaican people...

Here's the tally, O'Mally!! (I like to rhyme.)
10 pack of Butterfingers, eight Nutter Butter cookies, Oh Henry bar (Oh hungry? Oh hell yes), Diet Dr. Pepper, pretzel poppers of the nacho cheese variety, Milk Duds, Jujyfruits & Junior Mints (all for the sake of Seinfeld), strawberry twizzlers, Bubblicious in cotton candy glory (NOT fairy floss, you fools!!), Reece's Pieces king-sized pack and mini-cups, Tootsie Rolls (a-one, a-two, a-three. CRUNCH. A-three.), salt water taffy, Reynolds non-stick foil (the tastiest treat of all is pure non-stickiness!), Pop-tarts of s'mores, caramel chocolate, frosted blueberry and hot fudge persuasion, Reese's Puffs cereal, Crest white vanilla toothpaste (it's $8 toothpaste but it's ALL MINE, dammit!), Lucky Charms (praise the lord!!), Betty Crocker's scalloped potatoes and hash browns (I thought Betty was a chocolate mogul? That broad sure got around...), Hamburger Helper Philadelphia cheesesteak mix, the good Count Chocula, two Clamatos and an enigmatic 'Sting Ray mixer' rival, Hershey's chocolates and dark chocolates (which are sugar-free, might I add), Shake 'n' Bake spicy chicken, Zatarain's shrimp creole base, Kraft catalina dressing (isn't that a Star Wars planet?), A&W root beer, A&W diet root beer (for those image-conscious guzzlers out there), Snapple diet peach and diet pink lemon, Coca-Cola Blak and an almighty 24-pack of Dr. Pepper that took a muscular $30 from our wallet.

All up, that's 62 items of America goodness, all for the unholy sum of $316.39 Australian dollars (hidden joke there that only Atcho will notice). Hooooooly crap, we loves our American goodness. I'd actually like to see what all that would've added up to in the US, I reckon a thrice of the price, but what the hey, I got my damned cereal, I'll be fine.

...Of a final note is the peculiar Coke Blak bottle I purchased for novelty value. It claimed to be a Coke, but it had odd packaging that intrigued me into its purchase. Americans have had it around since 2006 but its unlikely to hit Aussie shores too soon (bit like that blue Pepsi stuff, eh?), and after my first swig I keenly noted it was a coffee-flavoured Coca-Cola. Some three hours later, and I think it has consumed my insides. Sure it tasted kinda neat, but let's look at the facts here - you're combining CAFFEINE-LADEN COKE with CAFFEINE-LADEN COFFEE and getting CAFFEINE-LADEN CONSUMERS who CAN NO LONGER SLEEP AT NIGHT. I opted for the one bottle (at $3.29 of course) and have not regretted that decision. For about twenty minutes my hands were twitching furiously and my eyes were kinda blurry, making scrambled-egg cooking a hazardous task; I don't think I needed 12 of the damn things.
Perhaps the blame should be put somewhere else, but as that cannot be confirmed nor denied, I shall place the blame on my imminent death on the godless, soulless Coca-Cola Blak. ...Beware! Good for pulling an all-nighter! Even better for pulling an all-weeker!

Maybe I'm just not as tolerant as you Americans with your bellies of steel, I'll just take my Freddo frogs and leave the dangerous stuff to y'all. ...Just as long as I get to keep my 8520 milliletres of Dr. Pepper.

Titans, turtles and.... tumultuous?

It sure is a tumultuous time to be a Titans fan, oui? Pacman's out for the year (or at least 10 weeks. AT LEAST), David Givens doesn't really wow me as our most exciting receiver being all gimpy (all the best David, unless Brandon Jones is ready to break out hardcore for us), Travis Henry is one of dem stinkin' Broncomen, Jacob Bell wants us to show him the money and best of all, while at the same time being worst of all, Vince Young will be on the cover of Madden NFL 08. A sign of respect and clamour around the league for being one of the hottest commodities, while at the same time subjecting him to a curse not too dissimilar to the cover of Sports Illustrated (which Vince has already beaten, subsequently winning the Rose Bowl. Go figure.)
I had already predicted a sophomore slump for Vince, but now my simple idea that a guy tails off in year two because people have figured him out and he's still working out the kinks, is instead replaced by the notion that John Madden has bewitched him. Somehow the first sounds more credible, but the second more widely acknowledged. Either way, if I'm cussing a lot more by the end of the year, you'll know that Vince is either struggling/injured/dead.

A digression, written on September 23rd, 2003...

The plump man takes a deep breath. His fingers twitch nervously, and he seems to be awash by a sense of pensiveness. He dismisses it, however, prepared to make the biggest, and perhaps last, great jump of his life. He shifts his hat slightly, breathes out, and starts running furiously. His feet fly swiftly and silently against the cobblestone beneath him, and his arms pump mightily. His gratuitous girth belies his speed. He hops up onto the spring placed precariously close to the edge, and bounds off, using all the leverage he can manage.
He soars through the air confidently, almost casually, before beginning his abrupt descent toward his moving target. All he can do now is hope he tracked its flight pattern perfectly. He nears his destiny, when suddenly, the flying turtle he had aimed for starts climbing higher. It manages to slip past, and the plumber plummets hopelessly down to the fiery depths of hell.

GAME OVER

DAMMITALL!! Why was Miyamoto so deadset obsessed with making Super Mario Bros Deluxe so absolutely hard? Obviously, with my superior skills, I soared through the normal game, and conquered most of the Lost Levels, but World 8-3 is insane. You know, why did Bowser have to play it safe? Why choose to make the empire's last line of defence show a sense of plumber hatred never seen before? I tell you, no matter how goofy Nintendo make his personality, this dude's a brilliant tactician. He does amazing things with troops who are downed by a single jump. I mean, in all his army, their most feared weapon is their flipping HAMMERS. And through all of this, he still manages to kidnaps the Princess, overthrow an entire kingdom AND perfect his go-kart skills. It's obvious that Bowser really does make the Mario world go round.

Honestly, where would we be without Bowser?

Here you've got Mario, crippled from a gorilla-related mishap that ended his exciting days as a carpenter forever. His girlfriend/niece/whatever the twisted storylines indicate, Pauline, ditches the poor sod, and no amount of rescue from oversized pinball machines will win her back. With his workers compensation, Mario fires up a last-ditch job as a plumber, which, although a tamer profession, is damned expensive. His last option is to live off his brother Luigi (who, according to the DK cartoon lore, is probably grieving over the awful relationship between him and his estranged daughter). Anyway, they're given some screwy offer to clear out pipes filled with crabs and flies.

Now, stop right there. Given the curious nature of the situation, and the overwhelming presence of the Shellcreepers, it's highly likely that these are some of Bowser's rogue troops. However, for the sake of argument, we'll assume otherwise. Who knows what really happens down in the sewers of Brooklyn, anyway. If New York City's houses ninja turtles, who's to say Brooklyn doesn't have angry icicles.

Anyway, the bros follow the tubes, and end up in the Mushroom Kingdom; a democratic society with a senile Chancellor and an army of mushrooms. In a Communist world, the kingdom should've been invaded decades ago. Well, anyway, pipes are two-way things, so the various baddies the bros encounter are wreaking havoc on this world as well as their own. So when the crab-and-fly-overrun Kingdom is suddenly visited by Italian plumbers with overalls and questionable surnames, they're naturally suspicious of the pair. The innocent and no doubt confused plumbers are taken into custody, and thanks to a bad system and a kangaroo court, Mario and Luigi are accused of sabotage, and sentenced to life in prison.

When all seems bleak, there's a sudden invasion by the villainous Koopa army. The Kingdom's troops are easily overpowered, and the few remaining politicians decide blackmail and extortion is the way to go. They convince Bowser to trade the Princess for the lives of the Mario Bros. Bowser weighs the issue, and makes a bold decision. Who wants some nagging member of the royal family, whom he could no doubt easily recapture, when he could have not one but TWO hardworking plumbers who work for peanuts, and can jump really high?

Bowser sees the benefits, and dreams of a future with no more backed-up toilets.

He accepts the offer, but keeps his troops at their posts. And just as well he should, because as soon as Mario and Luigi are released from jail, they go against the government's decision, and rebel against the Koopa forces. After Bowser is defeated, the government sees only bad things for the Mushroom Kingdom. Should others hear of the cowardly actions of the Kingdom's parliament, trade offers would drop, and the economy would be in shambles. Desperately, they make a shifty cover-up story involving heroes and warp pipes, resulting in Mario and Luigi regaining their freedom.

HOWEVER, since our situation was a world without Bowser, the invasion never occurs, and the Mario brothers DIE IN PRISON. Does that sound like kind of thing Nintendo could build an empire around?

Hell no! So now, ask yourself, who's the real hero? Mario or Bowser? …Who did you say?

Well, you're wrong. The answer was Luigi. Without his financial and commercial support, Mario never would've been hired for a job as important as the crab-and-fly dilemma, and Mario would've died a sad and unsuccessful man.

…Doncha just love trick questions?

From that unnecessary piece of script (which may only seem familiar to Werdnazo), allow me to segway to my next point; Smash Bros Brawl looms in the distance, and I can only wait on with baited breath to see who will make the roster this edition around. Will I reprise my feared role of Falco? Will Sonic make the cut, thereby becoming my boy blue? Or, most exciting of all, will they give the nod to the Koopa f'in Troopa.
What isn't to love about Koopa Troopa, huh? He's the footslogger, the pawn, the man on the front line, the guy who's just there to take up space, and what weaponry is he provided with? If you'd read that delightful story, you'll find it's nadda. He's that much of a badass, his only method of attack being to walk into his enemy. Oh yeah, there's a linebacker to be proud of. And, despite his shortcomings, I'm sure I've been killed by Koopa Troopas at least forty-seven times over my years of playing Mario games.

...And let's look at it this way. He's a turtle. A killer friggin' turtle. He's everything I hope and dream to be, and it is because of this that he MUST, I declare MUST be in Smash Bros Brawl! Or better still, a 3D model of Kooper. I love that guy, perhaps someday we'll be wed.

Conformity vs. Chaos

Before delving into this tangent, let me state: I am right-wing. Though the following may be chock-full of left-wing praise, and there still isn't a governing system I like, if you knew me personally, you'd know me to be entirely RW.
While I've got a head full of steam, I'll express simply, on Thursday's uni class I saw the overwhelming RW flaw: tyranny. When you're in the arts department of university you're fed with so many LW ideals you could go loopy, so that's why getting a powerful dose of the opposite took me by surprise.

Put simply, the lesson I am taught in this class is, you're only right if you agree with the tutor. Any disagreements are dismissed or dismantled, any alternative styles or ideals are dubbed incorrect if they don't suit the tutor's strict, minimalist style, and as for his contradictions? Ignored, or shielded by barely relevant excuses. It's almost painful watching as all material must be generated towards this simple-minded singularity (I suppose then Victor Hugo, with his excessive detail and grand digressions, is one of the worst writers of all time?) Teaching through Nazism; the end-all, be-all, singular right. Obviously, I disagreed (arguing that building in contrast with repetition is a simple yet effective comedic device, telling a story in itself and introducing basic impressions of two ideas), and suddenly my view was 'incredibly subjective'. Tragically, I had failed to realise that the tutor himself was above subjectivity or opinion. He is, after all, God. Bold? Well, last I checked, only God was above opinion. Now then, seeing such flagrant, oppressive RW menace in its element, I could appreciate the ideals of LW people in their utmost beauty. If only it were as simple as that. If only there was a right and wrong. If only being radical was right.

A digression (which shall fill the remainder of this BLOG); as much as you all bitch and moan about it, offended by such generalisation and demanding there be shades of grey for you to slip comfortably into and avoid consequence for your views, there is but one truth. The left-wing folk are the hippies. The free-thinking, right-brained, order-hating, protesting, down with establishment hippies. The right-wing; organised, authoritative, left-brained tightasses. It's cops and robbers, while at the same time it's man and machine. Why do people attest otherwise? Because they can't acknowledge their own flaws? The beatniks aren't beatniks, the narks aren't narks? Too many people are afraid to face the backlash of being either LW or RW. 'Oh I love order, but I'm still open to change.' Damn I hate fence-sitters. Let's face reality people, the two don't co-exist. In order for their to be real or meaningful change, order must be tested. Tested in a definitive LW way, wherein normalcy is tested. Consequently, RW is a necessity for survival. Without the system, without the right, there is no wrong. If wrong becomes an open, interpretive idea, then that which is truly wrong goes unnoticed. If openness is allowed, simple logic cannot be applied and the world is in ruined, because let's face it, everyone's opinion is not equal; there are geniuses and leaders, and there are idiots and rogues. Put simply, quit bitching about how terrible the system is, and how it must be overthrown; the system doesn't work, but it maintains. Instead of trying to destroy it, give us an alternative. Release us from conformity, but protect us from chaos.

To return to a previous point, I hate fence-sitters, but we all must remain liberal-minded. No, that's not a contradiction; essentially keep your opinions reasonable, but don't be afraid to have an opinion, is what I'm saying. It is the radical thinkers who ruin the image of left- and right-wing thinking. Though radical LW can fix the wrong, and radical RW can maintain the right, it's idiotic to be radical at all times. To be LW or RW radical is to destroy or crush, respectively. Is that what we want?

Let's also look back at that shade of grey remark (a tad ambiguous, and debatable in its current phrasing), shall we? One might look at that comment 'there are no shades of grey' and say 'isn't that itself a radical statement?' I don't think so. The way I see it, you can (and must) acknowledge, respect and even at times agree with the other, but in order for there to be any progression, you must have a majority towards the one or the other. That's what teamwork is for, my friends. For those who disagree to coincide, to give and take, to build together. Call it a shade of grey if you must, disregard all else that was said, but, at very least, acknowledge that beautiful solution; those who agree to disagree. Don't tear down the other, but don't back down from it either. Just let there be an other. As I've recently been subject to, to be without the other is to be unfulfilled.

1051 reasons to BLOG

Who's Your Perfect Lover?

Calculate Exactly, Down To The Name Who Your Perfect Lover Is. Try It!

.............Really? They can do that?
Technology is amazing nowadays. While we were once brought to our knees by the sheer splendour of the simplistic wheel or something of that nature, now we can achieve anything, it seems. Why, we can even determine who the love of your life is. Divorce rates will plummet! Loneliness will be but a tragic memory! Babies will be popping off like it's out of style! WOW!!

...Actually, that's just the ad MySpace has curiously thrust upon my person today, and I'm really, really sick of seeing it and just thought I'd pass that information forward onto you. I'm tempted to try it though, knowing my luck my perfect lover is a paedophile named Mr. Lumpy Pockets...

All that being said, welcome to my BLOG! It seems to me that, at some point or another, y'all have stumbled upon MySpace an impressive 1051 times. Good work, team! Doesn't matter that if I were an attractive blonde chick I would've totalled that amount in a week as well as a lot of friend requests and comments declaring me to be 'hott as', but it's still a delightful number. Though I had intended to make this BLOG at view number 1000, it's not like that number's not still there. It's just bigger, a little.

So tell me sock puppets, whatever have y'all been doing? Me personally? I'm back at university, breaking my back and my uvula all in the hopes I'll get myself some random-looking diploma by course's end, qualifying me as... umm... a studier of performance.

Iffin that was car performance that'd come in handy, but as it stands, I suppose I'll just rely on my talent to make it in this big scary world. (translation = prostitution)

Cripes, is there a point to this little diatribe? Why yes, of course! It was to... umm... err......... actually I can't remember. Next time I actually do something involving strippers or gorillas with guns (as found in previous blogs), I'll let you know. Supposedly going to Geelong in a bit, maybe that'll gimme some BLOGtalk?

Groggily lashing out at life

What's cracking, my preferred representatives of domestic disturbance? I just woke up from my hard-earned nap, to find Jessica's left me all on my lonesome here and I'm sprawled across three chairs with a piece of paper attached to my cheek and a spine resembling the offspring of Mick Foley and a Slinky.

By this point, I suppose I should focus on relevant facts and revelations to amuse you with, but these things appear to be distinctly lacking in my mind right now, I'm seriously typing without thinking here. Or I am thinking, and my fingers are incoherently recording what comes out. Look, flippy dippy doo.

Cosi's done and dusted (a month ago), and I now present the following possibility of whom you are right now.
1. Are you Jessica or my sister who have stumbled upon this BLOG?
2. Are you Broden, having actually used MySpace for the first time in two years?
3. Are you Luke, MJ, dad or Simon, having suddenly joined aforementioned MySpace?
4. Are you the other Luke, suddenly viewing his own performance objectively (in which case we should watch Guys & Dolls NOW, Atcho)?
If you are not any of the above, then you smell bad and will have bad luck for approximately twenty-three minutes, because you did not come to see Cosi. I mean, I sent y'all e-mails and put up MySpace reminders and handed out at least two (count 'em, two) flyers. If I can go to Rosanna multiple times each week for about half a year now, you could have come once. But noooooooo, y'all had your precious little 'plans', didn't you? Huh? Huh? Well U2's 'With or Without You' is playing now and it makes me think that I'm dying. ...Hang on, I can't quite figure out why, but there's bound to be a reason.

Ahh, forget it. I tried. I'll just make a particular effort not to attend anything any of y'all ever do. If you get elected to prime ministry, I shall bite my thumb at you in disinterest, good sir! I mean Christ, you've gotten me paraphrasing Shakespeare here, you know you did some damage, man. I'm half a step off declaring you 'shag-haired villains' and/or 'eggs'.

Now then, I've gotten that out of the way, and am tempted to go have some delightful fun with my Wii. Jessica bought it for me for Christmas, y'know. ...On that note, what did any of YOU get me for Christmas, huh? Huh?? I sure know what I was going to give you for Christmas, the gift of me onstage, and you all threw it back, THREW IT BACK I SAY!!

...I'm sleepy again now, and the U2 song has changed so that my point isn't dramatic anymore. I shall return from whence I came. Rawr.