Jewell at 11

There are a great many things in this life that I hate. I hate mushrooms. I hate failure. I hate seeing idiocy being rewarded. But at this moment in time, there is nothing I hate more than Jewell at 11.

After spending an evening with my uni posse having a merry old time, I tragically had to nip off in order to get back to Rosanna by train. It was 10:30 pm. In case you weren't aware, tonight (November 22nd) was a night of heavy rain. I walked through the twilight streets, wind whipping the drops into my eye, as I trudged down the dark, dangerous alleyways. My shoes are worn out at the sole, and my feet are drenched. Socks that were meant to keep my feet warm are instead a damp wrapping of water, chilling me to the core. The only sound is the rain hitting the pavement, my shoes squelching with each step, and the building melody of Rhapsody in Blue playing on my iPod.

The walk back to Jewell station seems longer than I remember the first trip being. I turn blindly into an alley that I know will put me in the right direction. No more bright lights now. Just me, the walls on each side and the train track ahead. I'd overshot the station by one block. Normally, this would be nothing more than a minor annoyance, but this is the Upfield line we're talking about here. And the Flinders Street train is pulling into the station at that very moment.

I'm a lost cause. I can only watch it whizz by as I dodge the puddles that threaten to submerge my feet entirely. It's 10:45. Whenever that next train is coming, it certainly won't be soon.

I step up onto the platform. I should be infuriated that I missed that train, but really I'm just happy to be out of the rain. I press the button to learn when the next train departs (fortunately the homeless man nearby doesn't stir. He seems to have nodded off quite peacefully). It departs, rather typically, at 11:14.

I'm completely soaked by now, of course. 15 minutes pass before I grab pen and paper and get started on this. Consider it my final confession, as I believe myself liable to die of hypothermia or pneumonia or whatever it is that a complete waterlogged state puts you at risk of. It's to the point now where I can't hold my iPod in my pocket for fear of water damage.
So let's be blunt. The Upfield line fucking sucks. One train in a half hour doesn't cut it. When we're talking about those lower than scum Connex trains, the only positive we have is their frequency. Well, apparently not always true. In such a built-up area, the trains are completely abysmal. Once again, public transport proves to be as useless as tits on a bull. Assuming trains run from 5 am to 12 am, Upfield features thirteen less services than other lines. If a service is cancelled altogether, (and believe me, it happens) you have one train in an hour. The same as a long-distance V-Line train. And this is for a train line that has a stop in Brunswick; it's not like this is some insignificant detour.

So this is what I should expect from my beloved public transport, huh? What could possibly be their excuse, I wonder...
Here's one - there are trams that run to Brunswick, too. That seems fair enough, until you consider what this suggests - an important train line is not self-sufficient, to the point where you shouldn't actually rely on it as a viable option of travel.
Fantastic stuff there. Let me also note that, should you dare choose to actually ride the train to your destination, I recommend catching the service from a half-hour earlier, because Upfield trains are frequently late. By seven and fifteen minutes on my last two trips.

If all this is aimless venting, then so be it. But I consider this another chapter in my vendetta against Lynne Kosky, one of the most pathetically futile women in the history of positions of power. No, my Ballarat woes haven't gotten any better either (alternative buses frequently having to be run for trains recently due to undercarriaging, or as they call it 'overcrowding'), but now I've seen to the failures in the supposedly reliable yet deplorable electric train system. It remains deplorable. Its reputation as reliable is in jeopardy.

Listening to Phil Collins 'I Wish it Would Rain Down' seemed pleasantly apt this morning. Hearing it this time has turned that into painful irony. Metaphorically painful, I assure you, because my body's numb now and I feel no actual pain at all.

Post-practica - the lonely celebration

So Match, Set, Game - the cleverly titled final practica that had been painstakingly assembled over the course of a semester (or in reality, three weeks) by David and myself, has completed its season.

I say season in the broadest possible sense, seeing how in reality it was only two shows, but I enjoy using the term season. After all, if Bonnie Tyler can only put on two shows, then so can we, dammit! (And the fact that I know the amount of shows Bonnie Tyler is putting on suggests that I hang around Crown far too often)

So what can I say? In two shows, we've come a long way, baby.
The first show, on Tuesday the 28th of October, was a learning experience to be sure. Let me give you the play by play; the theme is a rather ecclectic mix of performances, akin to the programs flicking past the eyes of an overzealous channel-surfer. To open, David and I boogied to the Proclaimers' I'm Gonna Be like hoons (more commonly referred to as 500 Miles by the uninformed), and already there were issues - we had organised dance moves, but there was a part where we were meant to basically just go nuts - I wasn't sure exactly how nuts I should be going. Should I be a conservative acorn? Or should I be letting it out in the full-blown ludicrousy of a water chestnut?
Tragically, I was acorning while David was chestnutting all over the place, so it looked rather disjointed. At this point, I, and no doubt Dave, were realising the value of doing at least one run through rather than simply leaping into it with both feet.

From there, things took a turn for the worst. The original intention, and the way things worked today, was that we had two television sets that would show two videos that were timed to run nearly exactly together. In one video, David was playing the lead role and in the other, I was the lead. Unfortunately, we learnt far too late that iMovie is one of the most infuriatingly incapable editing programs we have ever had the misfortune of dealing with, and its ridiculous 'non-destructive editing' had us going right up the wall. For those of you uninformed, non-destructive editing means that, even if you've deleted part of a clip, the computer will retain the data for the original information, in addition to whatever you've done to change it. Sounds all well and dandy, but if you've got a lot of scrap film to do away with, a 22-minute film can devour away 20 GBs of hard-drive space. Frustrating if you want to keep it, downright unserviceable when you're doing your work on a laptop with limited space. It came to the point where transferring six seconds of footage over to another file took five minutes apiece, and there wasn't even enough KB left on the poor laptop to even open the damned program.

Here's a pro-tip for you idiots at Apple - when we've deleted something on a program, we're given enough friggin' options to recover it as it is. We have our own moment of judgement, a fancy little undo feature and then, finally, the option of simply not saving the changes we've made if we discover we've deleted too much. And, if we're really uncertain of the changes we're to make, we have the option of saving the original footage in its own separate file, completely safe from our edit-happy clicking fingers.
So to be completely clear, if we delete something, the most likely reason we've done that is because we'd like to, oh I don't know... DELETE IT.

While scouring the Internet for a way to turn off this moronic, space-eating feature, I found people scratching their heads just like me about its very existence. Mac enthusiasts have this to say -
...you can't turn that off, that's how iMovie '06 works.

...Funny, because it appears to me that because of this feature, iMovie in fact does not work.

Anyhow, it came to the point where the laptop was so bogged down with un-edited and edited footage that it couldn't even muster up the strength to burn the project. So instead of having two televisions playing two similar videos, we were going to play one video after the other from the camera through the television. A tragic sacrifice in any event, but one we were prepared to make.

So unfortunate then, when the projects hadn't been able to save properly in their editing that halfway through David's version, the film actually stopped, and then started with my version. ...And then started over again.

I wouldn't say it was all downhill from there, as that was just about rock bottom, but it certainly didn't get any better - we had had the wind knocked out of our sails, and though the next couple segments where I listed all of the stupidest things I've done in life followed by a brief rap session from sock puppets (you'd have to be there) were received fairly well, nothing really got the audience rocking as we'd hoped.

Next, we headed up to the balcony to insult the practica itself in the same vein as the Muppets' Statler and Waldorf. A nice idea... except when we got up there, we realised we had no insults prepared. Crap.
After reeling off some of the lamest and lowbrow quips we could muster, our beloved stagehand Sean was to start up a video on the television down below.

Of course, this was going to be running off the camera. ...The camera which Sean had never operated before. Although the simultaneous videos fiasco was the worst part of the performance, there was nothing quite as nerve-racking as those painful moments when everyone in the room realised that nobody had told Sean how to start the camera up.
I didn't know what to expect. Would I have to go down there and do it myself? Was someone in the audience just going to say 'Enough of this rubbish!', illuminating the whole space and smashing our practica to bits, or were David and I just going to take the easy way out and simply leap over the balcony to our doom?

After about fifteen seconds, the film started up. I love you Sean.

In this video, filmed entirely in black and white and with a backing track of Enya's Smaointe, David and I were doing some of that contemptible interpretive dance. Meanwhile, the live David and I were bagging the video to high hell before the on-screen David grew sick of it and told the two of us to shut the hell up, or else he'd kick both our asses. It worked ok, but as our helpful tweaker Chris noted, the on-screen David was actually looking in a different direction from where we were. Whoops.

After this, David and I donned rather smart-looking suits and sang Ol' Man River in tones that, while certainly no great shakes on the great Paul Robeson, sounded pretty good. After the second verse, we completely changed gear, screeching out the notes at a high pitch with the enthusiasm of gospel singers.

The audience was... not amused. You mightn't be surprised to know this part was scrapped for the second performance. Bonus points to me though for including a Damien Cross photo.

Next, and by this point I felt so disparaged that I really didn't care any more, we put on clown makeup, and then started up an instructional video that both of us were rather proud of upon filming.
As German... scientists, for lack of a better title, David and I discussed men, women and relationships. It was really one of those things that, if you were in it, you watch it time and time again and it never gets old. For the audience however, it got old long before the end of its ten minute running time. Hans and Klaus certainly didn't win the people over that night.

Finally, the train wreck concluded with our grand musical number, I'm the One, a song I wrote to the tune of John Tesh's Spanish Steps. David and I hadn't worked on this for some time, and when we did it was mostly without the music to refer to, so it was only fitting when David was singing at a quicker pace than the music behind him, and then I followed that up by flat out just forgetting the lyrics that I myself had penned.

Finally, and in the only part that got any kind of real reaction, Sean came out in a dress and we fought over his/her/its affection. After this, David and I both sat in the wings on opposite sides of the space. We stayed there for several minutes, and though I couldn't see Davey or know for sure what he was thinking, no doubt he was in the same state that I was. Disgusted in myself, completely mortified that I had been part of such a disaster, and just wishing that the empty-feeling applause would go away. I can't remember the last time I've felt quite so low. I can't remember the last time I half-assed something and didn't get away with it. Plus, I burnt my damn finger playing with one of the lights. Those things get friggin' hot.

It was a failure of Michael Gow proportions; it was like somebody had taken the reprehensible Away, thrown in a couple televisions and disguised it as a university project. I had to make sure I wouldn't suffer the same feeling again, so I started the kind of damage control that's usually reserved for the aftermath of Joe Biden speeches.
I told Jess not to come. I told dad not to come. I told you not to come.

And judging by the sparse number of audience members on the second performance today, odds are you didn't come. Thanks.

Today, however, I learnt a valuable lesson. A lesson that I hadn't anticipated learning, and one that is still eating away at me at this moment. Because something unexpected happened today; everything that didn't work in the first performance worked this time. We both went bonkers in the opening, thanks to the tireless efforts of Sara the simultaneous films played alongside one another, the Statler/Waldorf lines were clever and we were positioned right for the threat to actually mean something, people actually laughed at the instructional video and I'm the One (though without John Tesh playing in the background) went without mistake. ...Plus, I didn't burn my finger this time. Bonza.

It was a mixed feeling for me, though. On the one hand, yes we had succeeded and pulled off a pretty good performance. On the other hand, because I had been so paranoid and faithless, Jess wasn't there to see it.
I will probably never see her steal the stage as Audrey in Viewbank's '04 production of Little Shop of Horrors. And similarly, she will never see me be decidedly adequate in Match, Set, Game.

It makes me begin to ponder what's wrong with me, you know? I can't even face my one and only, my teammate, my comrade, my confidant and my partner in more crimes than we'd be willing to confess, in the one time when I expected to be at a low? Wouldn't that be the time you'd most want her out there, being a great audience member, offering her advice after the performance and helping me ease the pain with generous amounts of liquor afterwards?

Nope, instead, after a surprisingly good performance, I had nothing. No Jess, no liquor, no hurrah from that young lass who brightens my day. Of course, I only have myself to blame for that one. I've really got to ship up on this trust thing, methinks, and just allow Jess to be there for me to do just what I know she will; be supportive and wonderful.

Until I can get that through my skull, those liquor-filled nights are going to be a damn side more pathetic-looking.

In Layman's Terms: This Young Man

Since I don't do anything other than work and get professional headshots, I've got nothing of import to report... So instead of updating my life, here's another Titans-related BLOG! Sorry Atcho, no mention of Dinger this time, so let's say it as much as we can now. Heimerdinger Heimerdinger Heimerding-aling-aling-er!

In Layman's Terms: This Young Man
Tony King
Sep 18, 2008

You've been doing it all your life. There may be others out there trying to do the same thing, but nobody does it like you do.

When you hit a certain age, you know you're special. You absolutely dominate against everyone else, and though there are people out there trying to tell you to change this or try that, the fact remains that you dominate – you're an unorthodox person, and that suits you just fine.

Once you get to the next level, everyone knows you're special. You hit success on a national stage, and now you're the name on everyone's lips. The same detractors play the same tune, but they're far and few between, because the fact remains; you win, and when in the biggest game of your life you carry your men on your shoulders and overcome a veritable highlight reel of players, you know you're ready.

Then the big league comes. It's faster now, and more intense. But that doesn't matter, you've seen what they can do, they don't realize your power. In your first year, you claim the offensive rookie of the year title. Same unusual style, same niggling complaints, same success. "Can't nobody tell me nothing."

Then… they know you. Who you are, what you can do, but most of all, what you can't do. Running lanes that were once open seem to be locked tightly, throws you once made now drop short of their receivers, and suddenly the world ignores what you've done in the past. Now the detractors are at their loudest, because their numbers are growing. You've been proving people wrong all your life, just doing what you do. But now your own limits seem apparent. Everything's changed on you, it all doesn't seem so clear and the clock's ticking before you're old news. You were once Superman, but the whole field is Kryptonite now. So what in the hell went wrong?

When a man like Vince Young becomes available to an ailing team the way he did back in 2006, it's hard not to become enamored with him. He's an exciting leader with incredible physical ability, and he just plain wins. Questions about his mechanics and intelligence were always there, but these things could be ironed out with enough time.

However, with an 0-3 record and Jeff Fisher's job possibly on the line, changes had to be made. Under a veil of 'preparing him for the future', but with intentions to breathe life and excitement to a stagnant franchise, Vince was thrown to the wolves. With him, the Titans would double last year's win total, and anchored by a strong running attack headed by Travis Henry, VY made some magic at all the right times.

Enough magic to fool us into thinking he had a good season, even.

His late game heroics may have provided the most important results; wins, but what if Mathias Kiwanuka hadn't let go? What if that overtime scramble in Houston fell short? His performance in spurts led to wins, but his overall body of work wasn't pretty; 184/357, 2199 yards and 12 TDs to 13 interceptions. A 66.7 QB rating. Out of all QBs eligible to be ranked (minimum of 14 passes/game), that plants Vince at 30, just a hair above a superstar like Bruce Gradkowski.

I know what you're thinking; this isn't what Vince does. He's not a pocket passer. Stats mean nothing…

Do they really? Vince's QB rating coming out of Texas was 144.9 (by NFL values that translates to 92.8). He could pass then; even if it was his secondary facet it was present and effective, so why should we claim it wasn't important? Wouldn't we like a complete Vince Young, who can do all these things?

Just like pocket passers have to be able to move around in the pocket effectively, a scrambling QB simply can't be unable to throw the ball. If I were a facetious man, I'd point to our two-headed monster in the run game, the steady bruiser in LenDale White and the speedy burner in Chris Johnson, and suggest a 'QB-by-committee' system where Vince comes in on situational downs, demoted to Seneca Wallace status (Seneca's career QB rating is higher, incidentally).

An 8-5 record as a starter and OROY may have really hurt Vince in the long run – he hasn't been pushed because of it. Had he lost those games, he would have likely been shifted in and out (Kerry Collins was miserable in those first three games, but he had only been signed weeks earlier. You can't digest a playbook and get a feel for your teammates in that time), a developing player who's main emphasis is to hone his craft – theoretically, in the 'ideal rookie QB development cycle', Vince would only now be starting his first year as a full-time starter, no doubt having really had a chance to work out the kinks without the pressure of the whole team weighing on him. Instead, we as fans expect him to call up that old magic in crunch time to pull out a win. It's no secret that the team's been bailing him out, nabbing victories in spite of him as opposed to because of him.

But think to yourself, you've revitalized your team, but now it's not working quite the same and you're labeled a bust and ostracised by the people who once loved you? Sounds frustrating to me to just consider it at this moment. Must be downright infuriating when it's following you every day of your life. And, to be brutally honest, what is Vince Young without football? Isn't he just a dumb ol' country boy? Does he really have the emotional depth to suck it in and grow up?

Optimistically speaking, this is karma. Two years ago, success may have blinded Vince Young, and for the first time in his career, he's down and out for a prolonged period of time. He's frustrated, depressed and betrayed. A weak man may give up and run, but that isn't the man we know. Said Mack Brown, "…after he played so poorly against Missouri he never lost another game."

So you will sit, Vince, and you will watch; consider it your late rookie season. If you're the winner and competitor that you're billed as, you'll come back with a fire and willingness to evolve. It's key at this point for you to learn from your mistakes, not get flustered by them. The strongest man isn't measured by the height of his success, but by his triumph over his failures.

Midsummer Night's Auditions

No doubt you're sick of this by now, what with the way I've sent it to people in five different mediums, yet all the same...

AUDITION NOTICE FOR MIDSUMMER
Group auditions for HTC Youth's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream will take place on Monday the 1st of September and Wednesday the 3rd of September. We are looking for actors aged 15 to 25 to take part on this December production. Actors are required to prepare one shakespearean monologue and one non shakespearean monologue each approximately one minuet long. The auditions will take place at Broken Mirror Productions, 2C Staley Street, Brunswick, 3056 at 7pm.
Performance dates are from Wednesday 10th December to Saturday 20th December.

For further audition information please email Doug at auditions@brokenmirror.com.au

And like I keep saying, if it's not your bag baby, that's alright, we want all comers, backstage or whatever! And if all else fails, forward the message to a friend or two and all will be forgiven. ;)
Anyone interested in any capacity other than acting need only contact Jess at charming_jess@hotmail.com

...Boo-yeah bazooka.

In Layman's Terms: The Dinger Influence

As no good BLOG goes without extension, I thought I might as well put up the article I had posted on GoTitans.com. I can appreciate my readers around here aren't particularly into the theme, but I shalt place it here anyhow. Maybe I have a larger fanbase with all the fringe Titans fans congregrating, hungry for some knowledge? It's doubtful, but mostly because their hunger would likely take them to someone smarter. There's only so much one man can do, you see.

In Layman's Terms: The Dinger Influence
Tony King
Jul 18, 2008

Of all the off-season changes the Titans made this year, perhaps the most significant was the re-acquisition of offensive coordinator Mike Heimerdinger. And why not? In theory, he should give a boost to everyone on the offense. Titans fans all across the land wait giddily for us to become a razzle-dazzle spectacle wherein Alge Crumpler returns to being one of the best tight ends in the league, Chris Johnson convincingly claims offensive rookie of the year acclaim, and Vince Young throws twice as many touchdowns as he did last year (actually, that last one shouldn't be too hard).

Or at least, we expect to see an improvement over Norm Chow's pee-wee offense that avoided the endzone as though it was haunted.

So what will we be getting from the Dinger sequel? We all know what happened in his first five year stint. Top ten in offensive yards in 2001 and 2003, top five in time of possession all five years (league leader in 2001 and 2002), co-MVP awards for Steve McNair in 2003, as well as the warm fuzzy memories of us taking some shots downfield every now and then.

But that was then. This is 2008. Who remains from those offenses? Practically nobody. No Mac, no Eddie, no Mase, not even stinkin' Chris Brown, (but in retrospect, we're used to him not playing anyway). The only holdover from back then is Eugene Amano, but I somehow doubt the offense will centralize around him. And yeah, J-Mac is back too, but I hardly recognize him now that he's bald.

The NFL remains a 'what have you done for me lately' league, and in all honesty I lost track of Dinger after he left us. Perhaps if we truly want to predict what he's going to achieve, we should delve into what he's done over the last three seasons.

In 2005, Mike jumped ship after a poor 5-11 season to take on the Jets' offensive coordinator position. Now as you might recall, the '05 Jets were horrible. Chad Pennington and Jay Fiedler went down in week three, leaving the QB reigns to first year starter Brooks Bollinger and Vinny Testaverde, who once upon a time was so bad there was a big blue billboard in Tampa that said "Vinny thinks this is orange!"

That year, the Jets ranked 29th in points scored with 240, nearly 100 less than the league average of 329.9. It was just an ugly season all around, with stats like 3970 total yards to the average 5054.7, and 11 touchdown passes to the average of 20.1 (as a matter of interest, Justin McCareins caught 43 passes for 713 yards and two TDs that year). The Jets were below the league average in every offensive category.

Any way you spin it, 2005 was a bad year for the 4-12 Jets, and particularly for Dinger's offense. I'm inclined however, to give him a mulligan on this one. In that season, Pennington, Fiedler, TE Chris Baker, RT Jason Fabini, WR Wayne Chrebet, C Kevin Mawae and later on RB Curtis Martin were all placed on injured reserve. Not exactly Dinger's fault, unless he was actually breaking fibulas and tearing rotator cuffs as a motivational tactic.

Herm Edwards was traded to the Chiefs after that year, and Dinger soon left for the Broncos. Though originally brought on as OC, that job later went to the line coach Rick Dennison making Dinger an assistant head coach. His influence was over the passing game, while Dennison covered the run game. As we all know, Mike Shanahan, a former OC himself, calls his own plays and obviously had a major influence in the Broncos offense.

In 2006, The Broncos took a startling fall, just missing the playoffs and again, the offense ranked below league average in all categories except, funnily enough, Dennison's run game. In passing yards, the Broncos finished a lowly 25th and sported 20 interceptions. One could pinpoint this however, to the inexplicable mess Jake Plummer became. After three strong seasons in Denver, in 11 games he threw 13 interceptions and posted a 68.8 QB rating. It was like Arizona had finally caught up with him. Rookie Jay Cutler became the starting QB, and managed a pretty good job of bringing some consistency back to the position. The overall offense ranked 17 in points gained, just one spot behind Chow's Titans.

2007 was worse for the offense as a whole with another poor statistical year. The Broncos offense ranked 21st in points scored, one spot ahead of Chow's Titans. But Dinger's passing game rose to 13 yardage gained. Jay Cutler started every game that year, threw 20 TDs to 14 interceptions, had a 63.6 completion percentage and a shiny 88.1 rating.

As most of us already know, Dinger worked closely with Cutler while at Denver. Out of the big three QBs available in the '06 draft, Cutler was the most overlooked (Vince Young being the most explosive, Matt Leinart being the most NFL ready), and though his team still hasn't found the success Vince has managed with the Titans, his career QB rating is 88.2 to Vince's is 69.0 and Matt's 71.2. People often say that what Vince does for a team isn't reflected in his rating, but you can't tell me that you wouldn't prefer he hold the intangibles, plus a lofty rating.

Yes, maybe Cutler has had a better understanding of the game after all, but it's impossible to think Dinger didn't have a lot to do with it. While we're throwing numbers out there (as I've done fairly frequently so far), Steve McNair's career QB rating is 82.8. In five years with Dinger, it was 87.4. The potential of what he can do for QBs is rather enticing, and hopefully he can transfer it to Vince Young, who certainly could use the help.

For those of you hoping for an offensive explosion to follow Dinger's return to Tennessee, there's one more thing for you to consider. Jeff Fisher.

It's no secret Fish favors a system of a steady run game an solid run D, maintaining possession and basically simulating a playground bully hogging the swings so that nobody else gets a turn. It might be wise to expect this to stay the same, especially considering he's got an inconsistent young QB, a gimpy old TE and receivers so B-grade you'd expect them to appear on a program hosted by Flavor Flav. With a strong o-line, a young group of running backs with potential, a smash-mouth fullback and a rookie tight end considered one of the better blockers in the draft, it smells like a ball control offense around the corner yet again, boys and girls.

Though the Titans will continue to focus on running the football, the team has passed more than run since Fisher's first season as head coach in 1995 (6538 passes to 6258 runs). This is on par with Dinger's first stint as OC when the Titans threw 2568 passes to 2432 runs. The difference in the Dinger years is the effectiveness of the passing game. And that's where I feel we'll feel his influence the most.

Early this season, look for immediate improvement in Young's mechanics and route-running by the receivers. Even though he claims to have mellowed, Dinger is a stickler for precision. In time, we may even see more shots downfield. But don't expect to see the Titans become a hulking offensive juggernaut right away. Miracles don't happen overnight. But expect the Titans passing game to dramatically improve over last season and the Dinger influence to exercise the ghosts from of the endzone.

She works hard in the nuddy

Just finished my sixth straight day at work. It's 1:29 am now, and I'm due to leave at 8 am to start my seventh. Then it's one day off, followed by another two days back at the grindstone. Working five days a week may not sound like much (I mean jeez, most people do that anyway, right?), but consider we're discussing a lad who would regularly not leave the house for a week over the holidays, then throwing all sorts of 6/7/8 hour shifts at him during school holidays, when put frankly IT'S REALLY BUSY, and you get a tired Tony.

Not that I'm complaining, I mean I love my job and I'm quite a big fan of money (even though it means the friggin' government won't pay me this fortnight. Jerks.), but I just get more than a little pissed off at comments I read from our venerable entertainment industry.
Consider Christina Aguilera. Her 'job' is to make music, and I'm using the word music in the broadest possible term considering the ear destruction she churns out, and for that she gets paid millions of dollars. So what does she do on her days off? (Days off? From what??)
"We have naked Sundays." she offers handily, "You just lie in bed all day and chill with each other and do things that husbands and wives do."

...At the end of this article, mX stated in reference to the lewd reference at quote's end 'the mind boggles'. Though indeed the mind does boggle, this particular mind is boggled by the concept that while the rest of us work our asses off day in and day out (several in far worse affairs than mine self, mind), Christina Aguilera needs a day off from making millions in which to sleep in and galavant about in her birthday suit.

Put short, fuck you Christina Aguilera and fuck your naked Sundays.

$6,460.57

It's a pretty large sum, isn't it? Larger still when you consider that that's in American dollars, the current Australian exchange rate places it somewhere in the realm of $6,861.83. A great sum of money sitting right there either way, and in some weird little way, I possess a collection of things that make up to that approximate amount.

So what is it? A couple of sweet second-hand vehicles I got on the cheap? A pair of computers, perhaps? Or that ever-coveted golden grill planted right on my choppers?
Well, no. As a matter of fact, it's what IGN estimates my video game collection is currently worth. Huh.
Who knows how they work out this sum(bitch); do they consider the ever-shifting market value of old games? Is each game valued independently, depending on its rarity and overall value? And is Bubsy 3D appropriately the 20c it's really worth (and that's being generous)? Who knows. Who also knows how many times I'm going to use my cliche three suggestions before providing a completely different answer, I'm actually getting sick of it but it's easy to do and gives me a chuckle along the way.

Anyhow, it just goes to show you I've got my priorities all laid out in a strange way; I don't drive, I hadn't held a job until this year, and I have no plans for life post-university. What I do have however, is 209 video games that I can quite willingly beat anyone in. Except the SNES' Jurassic Park, which is more or less hell planted within your hands.

I wonder how much this collection will be worth in another five years? It's certainly growing rapidly; in just a week that sum will go up by about another $50 ($100 Australian) when, as I've constantly alluded to, Smash Bros Brawl is within my grasp and within my gaping maw. Anyone who wants to see the actual list need only ask, I'll merrily provide you with the details. Don't be surprised if that number has since shot up as I've added in everything I've forgotten along the way.

smashbrossmashbrossmashbrossmashbros...

Though I don't anticipate an upcoming video game with the excitement and frustration that I used to in my younger years (though I was just a more excitable, frustrated person altogether back then), it's hard to name exactly one game that I've been anticipating as much as Smash Bros Brawl.

Now only an enticing sixteen days away, I celebrate each passing day by knowing it'll bring me closer to Nintendo's dirty little secret (that the rest of the non-European world have been playing with for half a year now). Perhaps it's this prolonged wait leaving a bitter taste in my mouth, or a lack of updates about every little detail via the main site, but this obsession of mine has died down drastically over the last few months. Tonight I have nothing better to do (besides tons of legal paperwork and an essay), so let's observe some wee little Smash-related thoughts!

1. There certainly are a lot of contenders for the elusive title of 'Tony's main'. Though only three have ever held this title (Pikachu in the original, Bowser in Melee for the first couple days, and Falco the incumbent since May 31st '02), the ever-increasing roster appears to hold a few new possibilities... Though I'll probably determine my main within the first week, here are the nominees!
1. Falco ~ Tried and true, Falco won me over by being a kickass Nintendo character (like Bowser) who translated into a kickass Smash Bros fighter (unlike Bowser). I've become quite good with him, but how will the new modifications sway my decision?
2. Sonic ~ How can I not be tempted? My childhood hero finally has his shot at Mario. He looks like a blast, but I'm not a big fan of his specials - they all seem a bit samey to me.
3. Pokemon Trainer ~ Definitely a distant third; the concept of playable Squirtle and Charizard is absolutely wonderful (you all know about my history with the latter), but the concept of PLAYABLE IVYSAUR is just a gift from heaven. Cycling through the three will probably put me off, but I'll try it out. Who knows, I might be able to master it... or even Pokemon Master it! (Hahaha... lamebuttons)
4. Pikachu ~ Pika's got the outside track on this one; definitely looking on the inside, as t'wer, the way an NFC team with a losing record still has a shot at the playoffs late in the year (because outside of the east, the NFC sucks). He hasn't got much of a chance at all, though he did enjoy a stint as my alternate in Melee, to the point where he still has the third most KOs of any character (behind only my Falco and Luke's Fox); if this were a matter of the alternates, Pikachu likely ranks up top to retain the position.
5. Bowser ~ They've beefed him up some... I've become too accustomed to the speedy characters, so things look grim for him to make an unexpected comeback. He may just have to settle for holding onto his unflattering role as alternate alternate, but he's a bit of a long shot even for that.

2. The new roster additions must be pretty good; of my main Smash comrades (Luke, Matt and Dom), all of us may have new mains - Luke from Fox to Wolf, Matt from Kirby to MetaKnight and Dom from Link to Diddy Kong. Like Falco's competition, we'll see if any of those decisions stick...

3. Anyone who considers Smash Bros a sport should be shot. If there's one thing worse than jocks who are arrogant about their sporting ability, it'd be nerds who are arrogant about their sporting ability. Fortunately, it'll never gain worldwide recognition as a sport, but unfortunately, I'm still yet to convince ESPN that poker and hot dog eating contests aren't sports, either.

4. I wanna record my matches! :)

5. I wanna record matches longer than three minutes. :(

6. I wanna cast 'Magic Missile'. :o

7. That last point was such a wonderful example of what an Internet-obsessed geek I am, though I am happy to say that the DVD of Shakespeare's Shorts has re-affirmed my belief that I am in fact a tank. It was the most fantabulous thing since this classic Articulate exchange;
Atcho: (giving a clue to the answer) "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."
Me: "Oh. Casablanca!"
Atcho: "Correct!"
Hilarious how in that instance, two wrongs did in actual fact make a right. (This point has had nothing to do with Smash Bros. Though I do suspect Captain Falcon might play a few rounds of Articulate on occasion.)

8. Smashboards question: How many characters can they possibly fit in this game?
Respectable Opinion: posted by DragoKnight (that's me you stooges) on March 28th, 2007 at 1:41 AM.
I can see 40 being a pretty logical number, though it'll probably be more like in the ballpark, rather than 40 on the nose. Maybe... 37. Yeah, that's a nice number.
Final Answer: Counting Pokemon Trainer as one character, Zelda/Sheik as two and Samus/Zero Suit Samus as two... 37. OH SNAP.

Thinkin' Lincoln

As the category I've selected claims, what follows is nothing. Absolute nothing, at least in word form. Hahaha I almost typed word worm. This BLOG was so worth it.
As per usual, I've got a 1,800 word essay due tomorrow that I haven't started yet on not one but two books I haven't read; it's a bit of a daunting task ahead but I've treated it with nonchalance so far. I've been awake for three hours and still haven't actually done anything. Wait, that's not true. I got my mage up to level 7.

Here are some thoughts, streaming readily from my noggin like some sort of fine wine (or at least cheap goon).

1. My favourite videos on Youtube are people's 'sexy dances'. It's hilarious how so many people have convinced themselves they'd make an excellent stripper, and allow the whole world to see for themselves. People should really consider, yes you might have an alright body, but that doesn't mean that people want to see you dancing. Remember folks, in the realm of dancing, particularly 'sexy' dancing, you're crappy until proven otherwise. And once you've forsaken yourselves with one bad dance, each subsequent one will be treated with similar dismissal. Next time, take a naughty photo and send it in to a porno site. Might at least make some money that way.

2. Lordy I'm so tired. I feel like Lee Dorsey working in a coal mine, only with less repetetive lyrics and no catchy tune. Although I suppose I could formulate a catchy tune if you gave me a minute. I've got an excellent trance track I've come up with, but cannot reveal due to racist lyrics. There's no real reason I use racist lyrics, other than they just happen to suit the music well. I suppose I should re-write it to be about pumpkins.

3. That last point had far too many periods, Microsoft Word would be having fits about the 'fragmented sentences'. Consarn Microsoft Word, always putting an end to my meticulously planned sentence structure.

4. The fax machine has rung through like four times this morning. Go away, I don't want any faxes.

5. That essay still doesn't appear to be any more done than it was when I started this BLOG. I was hoping I'd get lucky on the off chance it'd just take care of itself. Still hoping, actually.

6. I want to ramble on about more Titans-related stuff, but it's so slow in the off-season... Vince developing chemistry with Alge... Receivers vying for playing time among a crowd of mediocrity... Fisher getting so much positive and negative media coverage you'd think it was just two journalists trying to outdo each other with a multitude of aliases... Waiting for a bombshell. Or was that Jake Scott?

7. Should probably start that essay. Should probably stop watching NFL videos. They don't appear to have anything about Once Were Warriors or Song of Solomon. Perhaps the next one will?

8. Phenomenology is the most idiotic concept in the whole world, and anyone who theorises in it is a moron. It's just a bunch of pretentious German clowns using uncommon terms and adding '-ness' to the end of every phrase. They have an answer for everything. Not the right answer, but they'd never distinguish it as being anything but right because you can't prove it wrong. Martin Heidegger deserves a swift post-mortem kick in the nads; the only good thing he ever did was (unwillingly, obviously) lend his surname to the Final Fantasy VII guy who would just punch soldiers in the face repeatedly when pissed off. Now that's cool.

9. If The Waitresses truly know what boys like... do they realise I really really REALLY don't like that song?

10. Why is it when I put Anthony Cocking in a search engine a photo of the late Cynthia Ashton came up? I won't display the photo out of respect. And because I can't remember how image tags work on Myspace.

...Alright I'm out. Word up.

Inebriation

Hey there folks. Am fairly plastered right now (from uni, no less), and would recommend to you, don't down a bottle of Queen Adelaide Shiraz ('06) within five minutes - 8 standard drinks of red wine - unless you intend on looking like a dickhead the rest of the day, as I currently do. Afterwards I kicked the crap out of myself and took a free-fall into a pile of thumbtacks. It isn't easy being me, you know.

Spreading yourself too thin

In case you were unaware, Tony has friends. Quite a few, actually. A quick glance at my list of Myspace/Facebook friends (always an accurate barometer of popularity, of course) reveals I've befriended practically anyone who's ever sneezed at me in a particularly pleasing way. If you're reading this, odds are you're one of those friends anyhow.

So pause for a moment, dear friend, and ask yourself - who is your best friend in the whole wide world, above anyone else? (relationships don't count. Just your bestest best buddy)
Right? Got it? Good. You may continue.

Odds are paramount that the name you uttered was not Anthony/Tony/Ant or some other variation. You see, it's recently hit me; I'm the true also-ran of friends. The guy who gets the birthday invite and is quickly tucked away in a corner, the guy you don't confide in and rely on, the guy who will not be making any kind of speech at your next social gathering. Put short, I'm your real-life Mario, rather average and everyone's chum, but if you're given the option you'll opt instead for Falco or Marth (Brawl in one month!!)

I suppose I have only myself to blame, I do spread myself rather thin in life, pimping my services out to roughly eight different sub-divisions of humanity, and not to any particularly memorable effect. The amount of parties I miss due to my hectic schedule is fairly despicable, and I know I don't often extend a line to folks on a whim, but wow. Why does my excellence go so ignored?

Look, I realise Jess and I are close. But including her is cheating, because she's no mere human, she's a Jess. Of course we're best friends. But who else is out there? Who is my comrade? My confidant? My BFF? (An amusing phrase because it looks like the abbreviation for boyfriend. Tee-hee!)

So here's what we're doing. TONY IS HOLDING OPEN AUDITIONS FOR THE ROLE OF 'BEST FRIEND'. So come on! Show me what you've got. Make me your 1. Show me the love, and it doesn't even have to be platonic. Just be advised that being Tony's best friend requires an initial loading fee of $15, with an additional $5 charged to your account each week. Ending your services as Tony's best friend will incur a $20 cancellation fee, effective immediately. Prolonged exposure as Tony's best friend may result in irritation around the eyes and nose, use in regulation. If symptoms persist, consult your doctor.

WHILE SUPPLIES LAST!

Communal segregation and the black sheep mythos

Melton may be a great many things, but one would never make the claim that it is under-populated. Quite the contrary, it's crawling with lifeforms of varying value that by and large range from the dirtiest scum to the mere ne'er-do-wells, with your occasional exception to the rule like my sweet self.
It should come as no surprise then that nearly every train that stops in Melton will be packed to the gills with our kind. While other areas might provide a conservative few, us Melton kids come in droves, hastily shoving in and scrapping for one of those elusive seats to park upon. Is it proportionate to our overall growing numbers? Can so many of us simply not afford cars of our own? Or deep down are we just such unyielding fans of Thomas the Tank Engine that we all metriculate into the train station in the hopes of seeing a choo-choo, and the subsequent ride is just happenstance? I'll fathom a guess at 3, because it was an unnecessarily long suggestion and warrants a couple read-throughs.

Tragically for us simple folk, Melton remains without an electric train system. Now I could be a right whinger and flail my arms, citing our growing community and apparent love for trains as reason enough to give us an upgrade, but for the time being, I'm realistic.
We're flanked by Rockbank on one side and Ballan two stops in the other direction. It's almost as if Melton was created with the sole intention of being a near-literal example of 'the middle of nowhere'. Anyone with delusions of grandeur, remind yourselves, our claim to fame is that we have a Wave Pool. Neighbouring Bacchus Marsh has fruit vendors. We're still an insignificant speck in the bigger scheme of things.

So it's not like I'm demanding we go electric quick-smart. For the record, I love V/Line trains. They're comfortable and staffed by friendly people (you show me a Connex employee who isn't a prick, and I'll happily let you in on the meaning of life, as I'll have discovered it long before then). What I do want, if indeed V/Line is our longterm traveling option, is a more efficiently run system.

Melton truly is the red-headed stepchild of the train system (such a statement makes me think of Annie transforming into a train for some reason. Sorry sweetheart, but we don't collect things like ashtrays and art). Trains are unreliable and infrequent; I can't trust the damn things to ever be anything but inconsistent. I leave for work two hours early (a 40-minute train ride from home to destination) because if I wait for the next train, a delay of 15 minutes (a very realistic scenario) will result in my tardiness and no doubt subsequent termination.

I shake my head in utter contempt thinking about trains that whiz right past Melton, yet make a stop in Ballan. BALLAN, people. A locale so devoid of life it'd be a suitable location to film your next Raccoon City disaster without any interruption from intelligent life. Actually, zombies in 'the Ballan time forgot' wouldn't surprise me.
Of additional note, this morning the express train from Ballarat to Melbourne shot past, shiny and on time, practically mocking us as it went by, a deadly reminder of that which we could just not have. If it were indeed a descendant of dearest Thomas, 'Look but don't touch, fellows!' it would have tooted cheekily in its Ringo Starr-narrated voice.
The train we Melton misfits would then catch was eight minutes late, only a single set of carriages and a downgraded older model to boot.

Last night (a Tuesday), I missed the 8:25 pm train and had to wait until 9:55 for the next one. Are you trying to tell me that nobody needs to travel to Melton on a Tuesday night for a whole hour and a half? That's ridiculous; a Connex train line (assuming they leave every 25 minutes, most lines even more frequently) would fit three services in that time frame.

So here's my theory; Australia hates Melton. They fear us because we're different. We grow in numbers and try to get respectable jobs and educations, but are seen as inferior and as such we're subject to insults and disrespect, forced to ride on an older, less cosy train, and left to wait for ages while others are served promptly and frequently. Put short, Melton is a minority. Segregation, lack of rights, all that jazz.
But just you wait. Someday we too will have our say. We're allowed to vote, who knows what's next! World domination, methinks.

PS. The title of this BLOG was originally just 'Communal Segregation', but adding the suffix makes it feel more like a uni essay, which is incidentally what I'm supposed to be doing right now.

Shakespeare's Shorts

Denim. That's right. Shakespeare wears jean shorts. It's a recently unearthed fact that may shock you. Additionally, he wears Bond's jocks. And oddly coloured socks, to boot. ...And the less said about Shakespeare's tatts, the better!

Indeed! I am referring to the imminent oncoming production of Shakespeare's Shorts, my fifth straight production with HTC Youth and what will be the last in that streak of acting performances with the company (GROUNDBREAKING!!!) Iffin you haven't already gotten the gyst, it's sexcerpts from Shakespeare (excerpts actually, but I mis-typed it and thought it best to just leave it for comedy's sake) performed to great success by some of the finest acting talent you'll find in all of Victoria. ...oh, and me, too!

Having had to shift roles due to drop-outs, my talkative friend Iago has been given the old boot to the wayside, to make way for me to take the reigns of the ghost in Hamlet. I'm a manipulative old codger you see.

It's on Friday, 16th of May at 8pm at Heidelberg Theatre Company (36 Turnham Avenue, Rosanna - RIGHT NEXT TO ROSANNA TRAIN STATION) and guess what? It's free! That's right, we're giving performances away! That's how generous we are. And how can you be generous? By coming and lending your old theatre-bound chums a bit of an audience, oui?

NAKED PHOTOS

...Are found everywhere all over the web, for any kind of man/woman you desire. They're not readily available in my BLOG, a BLOG wherein I'll stay rather cautious, for it seems as though I've forgotten all of the things I had promised to say this time in my prior BLOG effort. Instead, I'm listening to Aqua, knackered from working the day shift (damn that day shift!!), a wee bit tipsy (as I usually am), and feeling the need to discuss whatever's on my mind. And no, it's not how many naked photos I shall post. That number hovers around the realm of zero.

For today, we shalt look at the upcoming production with HTC youth. For those of you unaware, this is my fifth straight project with HTC, giving me the second-longest streak, bested only by that dastardly Jess. This month it's a wee little piece we've dubbed Shakespeare Shorts, for those looking for a little Willie. ...ie., excerpts from Shakespeare productions, possibly the most infuriating concept I've ever dealt with.

Nothing against ol' Shakey, but I'm really, really, really struggling with lines and elocution. I'm excellent with learning lines, because they become phrases to me. I learn them word for word, and I'm fairly unyielding on how they're delivered. In the case of Shakespeare however, I'm really at a loss as to what I'm saying (something that will come to me with time), but above all else, I'm dwelling on how I'm going to remember it all!
Currently I'm taking on the roles of Lysander (Midsummer Night's Dream) and Iago (Othello), with a brief cameo as Mustardseed (Midsummer again. Wanted a mechanical, didn't raise my voice quickly enough). For anyone unfamiliar with the roles, Lysander is a man in love with his chick Hermia, until a magic spell makes him disgusted with her, and fall in love with another woman. Meanwhile Iago is a bitter prick who's jealous of Othello and wants him out of the picture, and intends to manipulate others to get what he wants. Finally, Mustardseed is a fairy. It's funnier if you pronounce it "Moostard".

Lysander is a pretty meaty role, with a lot of moving around and trying to work my way around three other people, while Iago... hoo boy... Iago likes to talk. I mean. REALLY likes to talk. Consequently, his confidant, one Roderigo, can't seem to muster up much of a response. Example;

IAGO

Lechery, by this hand; an index and obscure prologue
to the history of lust and foul thoughts. They met
so near with their lips that their breaths embraced
together. Villanous thoughts, Roderigo! when these
mutualities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes
the master and main exercise, the incorporate
conclusion, Pish! But, sir, be you ruled by me: I
have brought you from Venice. Watch you to-night;
for the command, I'll lay't upon you. Cassio knows
you not. I'll not be far from you: do you find
some occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking
too loud, or tainting his discipline; or from what
other course you please, which the time shall more
favourably minister.

RODERIGO

Well.

That's right. "Well." That's how he responds. You'd be excused for mistaking Roderigo for Samantha Stephens. In the particular scene we're doing, there's a total of 835 words. Roderigo speaks 41 of them. For those who aren't mathematically inclined (this includes me, because I'm only just finding this out now too), Iago then commands 794 words. How many of them being of any relevance is another matter, but we'll leave that one up to the experts.

Honestly, I just think Shakespeare absolutely hated the guy he cast as Roderigo, and cut out whatever massive speeches he originally had. Certainly doesn't make sense for a Shakespeare character not to have anything to say, everyone loves to talk, talk, talk. In any situation whatsoever! You can't get them to shut up, actually. Example one, Macduff's young son in Macbeth, shortly after being stabbed:

Son

He has kill'd me, mother:
Run away, I pray you!

Observant little corpse, oui? Example two, Friar Laurence of Romeo & Juliet utters the phrase:

FRIAR LAURENCE

I will be brief, for my short date of breath
Is not so long as is a tedious tale.

Afterwards, he says a couple lines that equate to 307 words. If that was a short breath to our good Friar, then I'd hate to see him when he's feeling long-winded. Any more examples would be easy to find. I guess what I'm saying is, everyone present in Shakespeare would be most excellently be played by Grampa Simpson.

But I digress. Not so much as Shakespeare, or Victor Hugo for that matter, who bogged down Les Miserables with so much stuff that there are at least five books completely irrelevant to the novel's plotline (save the last little part of the Waterloo chapter), or more accurately 121 pages of digression. And that's in the really small font that you can hardly read. And what's the payoff? You're a more astute person, armed to the teeth with information about how a monastery works and how the sewers of Paris were built. Lemme condense it for you, Vic; Valjean's hiding in a monastery. Valjean's hiding in a sewer. Simple as that. Valjean certainly does a lot of hiding. Just very wordy hiding, I must note. And while we're at it, everyone in France needs glasses, because nobody in Les Mis can seem to figure out who each other is after a short period of time. More mistaken identity than a Shakespearean comedy! And just as many wordy digressions!

Righto. Is there any other direction I can go with this curious little BLOG? Looking over everything I've just said, I can't go any further down. One may suggest that the only direction would be up, but that's not true at all; it may maintain this level of irrelevance and continue merely going forward. Forward is a direction, you know.

Perhaps then I should abandon ship and end this miserable little diatribe, leaving you all to scratch your heads and ask yourselves 'What the dickens did I just read? Shakespearen plays? French novels from the 1800s? An apparent lack of nude photographs? Pish!'
Sorry y'all. Gotta do it. Tempted to just keep going, but it's going to just turn into utter tosh like how Te Informo is my favourite Latin song and how when I began this BLOG I was listening to an Aqua song, and now upon completion iTunes has hit another Aqua song, with another 13 songs squeezed in between them. One would then suggest that this BLOG took 52.1 minutes to construct, if one should feel the need. One just did, you realise.

...And did anyone really come here just for naked photos? Wowsers trousers. Y'all could seek a better model than yours truly for that.

Won't you take me to funky town?

Come on... please... won’t you please, please take me to funky town? I’m very quiet and I’ll take care of myself. I don’t eat much or take up too much room. I’ll be certain to stay out of your way. You won’t regret it, nosirree!

You know what I regret, though? My neck pain. At some point last night I obviously twisted it or cracked it in such a way that now the only comfortable angle I have for it is with my head dangling off towards the left as though hanging on by a thread. It’s in quite significant pain here, I’m sure that’ll bide me well at work tomorrow.

Consarnit, I’ve done it again. Leapt into the exciting razzle and dazzle of the world of BLOGging, completely oblivious to the fact that I have nothing to say. Perhaps I’m approaching this whole thing wrong? A quick glance at the top BLOGS reveals that the hot subjects that everyone reads with great interest revolves around politics, how to land the guy of your dreams and, ironically, the idiocy of coveting a popular BLOGspace.

Well blow me down! I can surely address some of these issues, oui? Let’s crack into it then, shall we?
Politics! There appear to be a lot of them these days. It seems that every country has at least some sort of politicing in it. And though in some instances not to the greatest level of success (coup de tat and all that sort of excitement), it seems unavoidable these days - you’re gonna find politics. However, need you look any further than in your own society? Dwell on this for a time, I’ll touch on this in a future entry. (Dramatic build-up? A cliffhanger of sorts?)

How to land a hot guy! Go out with me. Obviously. I don’t see any other way of doing it. I’m told that there are supposedly lots of hot guys out there, but I don’t find any of them attractive, so clearly they’re not.

Stop coveting a popular BLOG! ...Okay, I will. My neck pain is enough initiative to terminate this endeavour, let alone the second most popular BLOG telling me to stop now, while I’m behind. One of these days I’ll have something of substance to say, rather than just sustenance. Yum.

I Served Corey Delaney

And do I really give a toss? Not really, I just figured that it’s the kind of subject title that will draw in potential readers. That and my HAWT picture, in which I look entirely unfriendly and mildly homicidal.

Now then! Let’s observe some things that irk me. Simply because that’s what’s really on my mind right now...
1. People who are convinced their opinion actually means something...
Everyone’s opinion matters, no doubt, it’s just that some opinions matter more than others. I find myself shaking my head in utter pity for the people who are so self-obsessed and think themselves pensive simply because they try and be more mature than everyone else and hold an opinion in everything. I realise that, until I am somebody in the world, the opinion I hold means jack all. I just spout it because I’m an arrogant bastard, not because I think I can make a difference.
Granted, some people will make a difference, and their opinion will matter, but let’s observe... IT’S NOT BY APPEARING MATURE ON MYSPACE. All these emo’s venting their thoughts and their ’pieces of failure’ really need a new perspective on life. Go outside and play ball, morons.
I blame poetry. Not for any particular reason, other than I find poetry to be the lowest form of communication known to man.

2. People who repeatedly stab the button at a pedestrian crossing...
I want to cross the road. I press the button, I wait. It’s a simple process, one of mankind’s many handy little features that is both effective and accessible to even the dumbest people. So why then, do others who subsequently arrive at the crossing, also feel the need to stab at the button... repeatedly?
Come on you jackass, what did you think I was doing there? Just waiting for your contribution, unable to press the button myself? What is the red light next to the button illuminated for? A warning that someone could potentially press the crossing button more and more?
It’s as though these people are convinced it’s a system of priority, that the more the button is pressed, the quicker they’ll be able to cross. A little note, folks, the crossing does not respond based on the amount of people who are supposedly there. So pressing the button again and again and again will not make it realise, ’Golly! That gent right there really wants to cross. Best we let him...’
...And the next person who presses the button when I’m already standing there should be shot. Lacking the testicular fortitude to brandish a gun, I’ll likely just shoot an intense glare.

3. People who go on the Internet to complain about how horrible their life is...
You have the Internet, a computer on which to use it, and a house in which to hold the computer. You’re not living the worst life in the world, just ask the starving children who have none of the above.

4. Teenage morons...
I firmly hold the stance that most every year level below mine was cursed with utter idiocy. I admit, my mates and I were stooges. But we, like the people before us, were good ol’ boys whose mischief never hurt anyone. We never made a specific attempt to make others feel bad, nor did we walk around thinking we were top shit. On the contrary, we were rather convinced we were stupid and made an effort to make that a fun thing.
Kids these days think that they’re the greatest, emulate whatever popular fad comes in from America, and butchers it to look like some sort of ludicrous joke. Just last year, riding the train home from uni, I saw a class of what... year 11’s? Something like that. They had their American brands, their out of uniform hats, even some bling, and they had mouths so filthy you’d think they were about to spout sewerage. And I never realised it at their age, but yes indeed, you do look like idiots. Not at all like the people you emulate, but degenerate little wiggers whose next step in life is likely to be towards unemployment.

5. An unshakeable feeling of obscurity...
So let’s set the scene. I’m at Galactic Circus, working the Cyber Coaster (roller coaster simulator that flips and spins, etc.) and this kid wants to ride. He’s no different from anyone else, pretty much the epitome of the kids I described in my last point. I tell him that he’ll want to take off his sunglasses and his hat for the ride, and he does so. (Who wears sunglasses indoors? At night?) He throws his hat into the little container outside of the ride, holds his sunglasses in his hand and sits inside. I start up the ride and turn around, and what do I see? A whole film crew, camera, boom mic, the whole shtick, filming this. I look back down at the hat inside the container, and I realised... ’Shit. I just served Corey Delaney.’
The ride ends, I open the canopy and miraculously the sunglasses have reappeared back on his face. He hops off and goes on his way, being filmed the whole time. There I stood. My acting career at a standstill, routinely doing shows to audiences so small you could count them on your fingers, and putting my heart into performances to be forgotten within the night. Corey Delaney throws a party and people know who he is, no doubt evidenced by the fact he’s being filmed going to Galactic Circus.

...Methinks I need to throw a party. Bring your friends. Bring your enemies. Bring your grandmother. I don’t care, just be as noisy as humanly possible. And be sure to tell everyone about whatever show I’m doing while you’re there.