Of the many many things I really don't care a great deal about, celebrating the New Year is one of those things that ranks highly up there. In the same way that I don't celebrate the first of August, I am not one of these people who goes batty about January commencing. I realise that there's a sense of finality to it; a way to definitively categorise the last twelve months as 'old news' and begin anew, but I would rather choose to do this whenever I feel it necessary, embrace the future at any given time, rather than be inspired by a date-based placebo.
I'll be ending 2009 in the same way I began it. At work. Though hopefully not exactly in the same way, selling some goon a clock who chose not to stop for the countdown, nor to thank me at the end of the transaction. Though I don't care about the New Year, I feel slighted by celebrations occurring just nearby, while I'm stuck beginning my year with random rude dude.
I guess part of my lack of enthusiasm is based on a distinct loathing for the way that the New Year is typically ushered in, among a heaving throng of drunkards, elbowing your way through crowds in places far too loud and crowded, or watching fireworks explode above your head in amazement, as though they haven't been in existence for hundreds of years already. It's a contempt towards crowds, particularly drunken crowds, that sucks the fun out of mass gatherings. Granted, if it was an entire room full of people I knew and liked, that'd be one thing, but trying to find a stark minortiy of familiars among endless inebriated faces really isn't very much fun at all.
Though I do admit, there is one thing that I do enjoy about New Year. And it's one of the reasons that I made this blog entry - this will be my last entry ever, dated with 2009. From here on, each entry will be stamped as 2010 (that's pronounced twenty-ten, by the way). I don't know. I like things growing and aging, so for my ramblings to be growing further apart by something as simple as a four-digit number may be the only particular joy I'll find by midnight. Hey, that's not so bad, is it? At least I found my own reason to celebrate.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Bennie and the Jets
...is the track which is currently on as I make this blog. Simply inspiring stuff. Thought that now was as good a time as any to spew some proverbial thought spew from the noggin, though in actuality nothing is really coming to me at this time.
Basically, I'm giving you a convoluted way of saying that I really have nothing to say at this point, other than to tell you that I'm listening to Bennie and the Jets. Kinda sad, admittedly, but on the plus side at least I'm listening to Elton John.
And watching scenes from Rain Man.
I suppose this could be what you'd call a wasted evening, tacked onto the end of a wasted afternoon and preceded by a morning spent entirely asleep. I really don't use those days off very wisely, do I?
The few acting offers I've been muddling through lately seem to have dried up over the holiday period, so now I'm left to focus entirely on my employment, something that actually pays. Hoorah!
I reckon I have about enough footage to chuck together a really bad showreel by now. There's a very real possibility that a bad showreel could prove more damaging than no showreel at all, so that's kinda why I'm putting it off. All going well however, I should have some footage from Ruby Moon and Alice to add to my arsenal, and besides the exciting opportunity to Youtube those suckers, I'll get a first-hand view of how it translates to film.
In all honesty, I recently got a chance to see my Sid on DVD, but it didn't particularly wow me. Unfortunately, the film in question is from the dreaded matinee, rarely a good thing. The only matinee I'll ever look upon fondly is of course the second Alice matinee, where we managed to turn the show into an interactive experience with the littlies.
Best moment:
Alice - "Twinkle, twinkle, little bat..."
Small child in the audience - "It's twinkle, twinkle, little STAR."
Brilliant. Such a shame that it took four years for me to cotton on that this stuff is a really good market to play on, but at least I got to have that moment. Plus, some really cheesy posing and dancing as the March Hare... Good fun.
Basically, I'm giving you a convoluted way of saying that I really have nothing to say at this point, other than to tell you that I'm listening to Bennie and the Jets. Kinda sad, admittedly, but on the plus side at least I'm listening to Elton John.
And watching scenes from Rain Man.
I suppose this could be what you'd call a wasted evening, tacked onto the end of a wasted afternoon and preceded by a morning spent entirely asleep. I really don't use those days off very wisely, do I?
The few acting offers I've been muddling through lately seem to have dried up over the holiday period, so now I'm left to focus entirely on my employment, something that actually pays. Hoorah!
I reckon I have about enough footage to chuck together a really bad showreel by now. There's a very real possibility that a bad showreel could prove more damaging than no showreel at all, so that's kinda why I'm putting it off. All going well however, I should have some footage from Ruby Moon and Alice to add to my arsenal, and besides the exciting opportunity to Youtube those suckers, I'll get a first-hand view of how it translates to film.
In all honesty, I recently got a chance to see my Sid on DVD, but it didn't particularly wow me. Unfortunately, the film in question is from the dreaded matinee, rarely a good thing. The only matinee I'll ever look upon fondly is of course the second Alice matinee, where we managed to turn the show into an interactive experience with the littlies.
Best moment:
Alice - "Twinkle, twinkle, little bat..."
Small child in the audience - "It's twinkle, twinkle, little STAR."
Brilliant. Such a shame that it took four years for me to cotton on that this stuff is a really good market to play on, but at least I got to have that moment. Plus, some really cheesy posing and dancing as the March Hare... Good fun.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Burke's Backyard
I just read the worst review ever.
The complaints were just horrendous. The reviewer didn't seem to understand what is supposed to be happening, which is amusing considering a crowd full of 6 year olds were able to follow it.
She had trouble following the story even though she's read the book a million times and seen the movies (Disney and the 1999 movie) heaps of times! And yet didn't seem to realise that our version actually didn't vary wildly in any way at all.
And when Tweedledum and Tweedledee were singing The Walrus and the Carpenter, apparently the always solid projection of Tim Camilleri and Sean Entwistle weren't good enough. Despite that, the reviewer wanted less screaming. Soooo... more projection, and less projection, right? Of course.
She liekd our kostumes. <3
Either way, I do not give half a shit about Burton's 2010 Alice. The sun does not shine from the asses of Tim Burton and Johnny Depp. People seem to get hyped up over the most ludicrous things.
...And finally, the reviewer has the audacity to compliment one of the actors while secretly panning the show behind her back. That's really low, y'know?
Everything we say has consequences, a lesson our reviewer is slowly learning. And indeed, I wonder how she'd feel if we shared this wonderful review with the people she had just been bagging? Doesn't even have the balls to name the production, as though hiding it in anonymity would make her actions any less heinous.
Moral of the story is, don't blog something that is liable to bite you in the ass.
The complaints were just horrendous. The reviewer didn't seem to understand what is supposed to be happening, which is amusing considering a crowd full of 6 year olds were able to follow it.
She had trouble following the story even though she's read the book a million times and seen the movies (Disney and the 1999 movie) heaps of times! And yet didn't seem to realise that our version actually didn't vary wildly in any way at all.
And when Tweedledum and Tweedledee were singing The Walrus and the Carpenter, apparently the always solid projection of Tim Camilleri and Sean Entwistle weren't good enough. Despite that, the reviewer wanted less screaming. Soooo... more projection, and less projection, right? Of course.
She liekd our kostumes. <3
Either way, I do not give half a shit about Burton's 2010 Alice. The sun does not shine from the asses of Tim Burton and Johnny Depp. People seem to get hyped up over the most ludicrous things.
...And finally, the reviewer has the audacity to compliment one of the actors while secretly panning the show behind her back. That's really low, y'know?
Everything we say has consequences, a lesson our reviewer is slowly learning. And indeed, I wonder how she'd feel if we shared this wonderful review with the people she had just been bagging? Doesn't even have the balls to name the production, as though hiding it in anonymity would make her actions any less heinous.
Moral of the story is, don't blog something that is liable to bite you in the ass.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Why I hate being backstage
Perhaps it's a flippant thing in theatre these days, but it's something I stand by passionately - when you're not onstage, you're dead silent. Some plays it's easier than others, like if you're on for many scenes and you always have to keep an ear open for your cues, but in the last two plays I've been in, Ruby Moon and Alice in Wonderland, most characters only have one scene, and whatever occurs afterwards is of no concern to them.
So what do you get? Conversations. Loud ones. Over what's the goss according to Cosmopolitan or something akin to that. And lord knows, I hate being the shusher. It's a frustrating task, because honest to god, nobody seems to give enough of a shit to stay quiet for more than a minute. It's not a long play. It's two hours, and that's it. Is it too much to ask that, if you really have to talk, that you keep it down?
Maybe I'm just beyond the times, or some sort of anti-social pretentious git. All I know is, I'm here to put on the best damn show possible, and backstage noise can only detract from that.
It's a dying art, that professionalism thing.
So what do you get? Conversations. Loud ones. Over what's the goss according to Cosmopolitan or something akin to that. And lord knows, I hate being the shusher. It's a frustrating task, because honest to god, nobody seems to give enough of a shit to stay quiet for more than a minute. It's not a long play. It's two hours, and that's it. Is it too much to ask that, if you really have to talk, that you keep it down?
Maybe I'm just beyond the times, or some sort of anti-social pretentious git. All I know is, I'm here to put on the best damn show possible, and backstage noise can only detract from that.
It's a dying art, that professionalism thing.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Not even God himself could stop me
You know the phrase, right? The one that states that you're so full of determination, so full of drive, that you dare the Lord himself to try and stop you. It's pretty ballsy, isn't it? Because if you're going to pick an opponent to call out, you don't get much bigger than God. He can seriously mess your shit up if you're not careful, he means business. You'd really be best off going more conservatively if you knew what was good for you, like 'Not even the old lady down the road could stop me', or 'Not even Nathan the friendly and helpful bloke could stop me'.
I don't think I've ever really uttered the phrase myself, and yet all the same, today I've been unfortunate enough to realise the magnitude of its challenge. For here I sit, on a train that should have left Melton twenty minutes ago, instead being told that the train has been cancelled indefinitely, and it'll be another half hour until the road coaches arrive.
For it seems that lightning has stricken signal boxes down the line, and trains are a no go.
I'm on my way to an audition, you see, and I was concerned about whether I'd get to my destination on time back when I thought things would be running as planned.
Interpret this in as many ways as you'd like, but I contemplate how hardly I've been working lately to try and launch my non-existent acting career, and now here I sit, defied by God above in my hopes to audition. Some might say it's a sign. That I should get off this train, walk home and pursue a more reasonable career in the mining profession.
I myself see this as just another obstacle in my way, and one that makes me seem grander than I really am. For though as aforementioned, I would much rather be picking fights with lesser opponents, fate has selected my enemy for me, and he holds power greater than any other. Some day, though, I'll be happy that I kept fighting, proud of the adversity that I overcame and wonderment for all that I was able to topple the mightiest challenger of all.
To you, God, I say game on.
I don't think I've ever really uttered the phrase myself, and yet all the same, today I've been unfortunate enough to realise the magnitude of its challenge. For here I sit, on a train that should have left Melton twenty minutes ago, instead being told that the train has been cancelled indefinitely, and it'll be another half hour until the road coaches arrive.
For it seems that lightning has stricken signal boxes down the line, and trains are a no go.
I'm on my way to an audition, you see, and I was concerned about whether I'd get to my destination on time back when I thought things would be running as planned.
Interpret this in as many ways as you'd like, but I contemplate how hardly I've been working lately to try and launch my non-existent acting career, and now here I sit, defied by God above in my hopes to audition. Some might say it's a sign. That I should get off this train, walk home and pursue a more reasonable career in the mining profession.
I myself see this as just another obstacle in my way, and one that makes me seem grander than I really am. For though as aforementioned, I would much rather be picking fights with lesser opponents, fate has selected my enemy for me, and he holds power greater than any other. Some day, though, I'll be happy that I kept fighting, proud of the adversity that I overcame and wonderment for all that I was able to topple the mightiest challenger of all.
To you, God, I say game on.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
myki likes it
There's a certain type of people who hang around train stations in the city who always garner a great deal of annoyance. They're the ones handing out flyers or brochures or whatever, always sticking it in your face and making you feel all guilty whenever you don't take it.
Well, that's the majority of them. There's another kind, and a large proportion still, who avoid giving anything to Caucasians whatsoever - one of my personal victories was walking right up to one of these people, asking for one of their precious flyers, and then marching proudly away, mightily declaring 'white power' as I left. In retrospect, I'm not sure why I did that. I'm just sick like that, I guess.
But anyhow, the point is, they're trying to get rid of the wad of papers in their hand. That's what they're paid for, that's what their angle is, and that's what their burden is. All around the stations in abundance lately, however, has emerged a new breed. Ones who come in packs of three to five, wearing bright blue shirts, and looking entirely unlike the part. For you see, they aren't actively walking towards you and trying to pass on their information about their product. Instead, they're standing around chatting to one another, simply staring down as people whiz by in large numbers. They're not approaching anyone; it's as if they're afraid that they won't have the answers, or that their product simply isn't that good at all.
That product is myki.
So after all my years of bitching and moaning, after all these years of futile train services, assault on late-night carriages, and miserable Connex staff who seem less concerned for your safety and more concerned why you bought a concession ticket, Victoria will be seeing its first real development in the public transport scene in the four years that I have been an active commuter.
I mean, good for them. It's a good idea and it ought to help shape things up a bit. I'm not about to complain about the amount of time, money and energy they used on setting up all of those myki stations about a year and a half ago that would sit there and do nothing, curiously on at all times to tell us 'NOT IN USE' (I'm sure the amount of power these stations use is minimal, but why use any at all?), or the fact that this whole project has been a shaky failure in its development process which started back in 2005.
No. I'm instead going to giddily celebrate the wonderful transport industry and my hero Lynne Kosky for ushering in a revolutionary new ticketing system. After all, every good new system needs a fair bit of tinkering, even ones that were initially set to launch in 2007. Ignoring the fact that Singapore is one place that springs to mind that has had a similar system in place since 2002, and could have been one point of reference to have sped up the process by about a year or two, I'm just so happy that this is finally happening.
And we've already got a massive supply of nervous employees on hand who are unaware of the system, who will no doubt be very useful (if they're still around on launch) in trying to explain why it is that your myki isn't working. It's the same with any electronic. It will fail, shortly after launch. It's had 'successful trials' in such bustling burgs as Ballarat and Bendigo, but you can't feasibly reason that they're anywhere near prepared for the massive impact that the Melbourne metropolitan region will bring. The extra couple years of tinkering will help, but judging by the way that train carriages are still horrendously overfilled and some busy areas like Melton still don't see frequent train services, it's clear that the transport industry still hasn't recognised how to cater towards their growing bevy of customers.
Expect the mX to be filled to the brim with complaints, expect the transport industry to brush it off as 'a minor hiccup', and expect, dare I say, for the system to be briefly pulled and Metcards to be hastily ushered back in for a short period of time while they try and work out what the hell is going wrong.
Press reports indicate we should expect myki in five days. Funny then, how other than a few blue-shirted dweebs who appear frightened and mute, we've had no indication about this happening. If they're filled with confidence about this system, shouldn't it be plastered up everywhere? Shouldn't everyone be made aware of the exciting world of myki?
When Kosky came under fire for the delayed implimination of the system back in 2007, she said that it was a complicated system and it was "important to get it right". Unfortunately for us frequent commuters, I'd be hard-pressed to think of anything that's been done in the last few years of public transport that I would consider something they "got right".
Well, that's the majority of them. There's another kind, and a large proportion still, who avoid giving anything to Caucasians whatsoever - one of my personal victories was walking right up to one of these people, asking for one of their precious flyers, and then marching proudly away, mightily declaring 'white power' as I left. In retrospect, I'm not sure why I did that. I'm just sick like that, I guess.
But anyhow, the point is, they're trying to get rid of the wad of papers in their hand. That's what they're paid for, that's what their angle is, and that's what their burden is. All around the stations in abundance lately, however, has emerged a new breed. Ones who come in packs of three to five, wearing bright blue shirts, and looking entirely unlike the part. For you see, they aren't actively walking towards you and trying to pass on their information about their product. Instead, they're standing around chatting to one another, simply staring down as people whiz by in large numbers. They're not approaching anyone; it's as if they're afraid that they won't have the answers, or that their product simply isn't that good at all.
That product is myki.
So after all my years of bitching and moaning, after all these years of futile train services, assault on late-night carriages, and miserable Connex staff who seem less concerned for your safety and more concerned why you bought a concession ticket, Victoria will be seeing its first real development in the public transport scene in the four years that I have been an active commuter.
I mean, good for them. It's a good idea and it ought to help shape things up a bit. I'm not about to complain about the amount of time, money and energy they used on setting up all of those myki stations about a year and a half ago that would sit there and do nothing, curiously on at all times to tell us 'NOT IN USE' (I'm sure the amount of power these stations use is minimal, but why use any at all?), or the fact that this whole project has been a shaky failure in its development process which started back in 2005.
No. I'm instead going to giddily celebrate the wonderful transport industry and my hero Lynne Kosky for ushering in a revolutionary new ticketing system. After all, every good new system needs a fair bit of tinkering, even ones that were initially set to launch in 2007. Ignoring the fact that Singapore is one place that springs to mind that has had a similar system in place since 2002, and could have been one point of reference to have sped up the process by about a year or two, I'm just so happy that this is finally happening.
And we've already got a massive supply of nervous employees on hand who are unaware of the system, who will no doubt be very useful (if they're still around on launch) in trying to explain why it is that your myki isn't working. It's the same with any electronic. It will fail, shortly after launch. It's had 'successful trials' in such bustling burgs as Ballarat and Bendigo, but you can't feasibly reason that they're anywhere near prepared for the massive impact that the Melbourne metropolitan region will bring. The extra couple years of tinkering will help, but judging by the way that train carriages are still horrendously overfilled and some busy areas like Melton still don't see frequent train services, it's clear that the transport industry still hasn't recognised how to cater towards their growing bevy of customers.
Expect the mX to be filled to the brim with complaints, expect the transport industry to brush it off as 'a minor hiccup', and expect, dare I say, for the system to be briefly pulled and Metcards to be hastily ushered back in for a short period of time while they try and work out what the hell is going wrong.
Press reports indicate we should expect myki in five days. Funny then, how other than a few blue-shirted dweebs who appear frightened and mute, we've had no indication about this happening. If they're filled with confidence about this system, shouldn't it be plastered up everywhere? Shouldn't everyone be made aware of the exciting world of myki?
When Kosky came under fire for the delayed implimination of the system back in 2007, she said that it was a complicated system and it was "important to get it right". Unfortunately for us frequent commuters, I'd be hard-pressed to think of anything that's been done in the last few years of public transport that I would consider something they "got right".
Monday, November 9, 2009
Hooked on a feelin'
Bein's believin'
That you're in love with meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
I'm hooked on acid. I mean a feeling. I mean a feelin'. One of those, I suppose. Dagnabbit, here I am rambling again with only the title 'Hooked on a feelin'' to work with. Perhaps my stream of consciousness will once again get me out of trouble? Actually, that's highly unlikely. Last time I relied on that, I got a Zamburu tribesman and Dick Dastardly beating on women. What does my stream of consciousness provide me with this time?
Gimme a tick... THE LEGEND OF ZELDA: A LINK TO THE PAST.
Yup. That's what my feeble little brain could muster. A Super Nintendo game from nearly twenty years ago. Good game, innit?
This weather is mighty atrocious, might I say; I really don't understand this fascination for warm weather. I mean, besides the fact that it's healthy and allows us all to go outside... Ah damn, that's the problem. I'm unhealthy and I don't go outdoors. I'm like anti...human? Scary thought.
ZOMBIFIED TONY
TONY ZOMBIE
TONBIE
You know what I'm thankful for right at this moment? The ability to touch type. Absolutely fantastic, I pity all those who are without it. I don't profess to have a great deal of muscular recognition, but in this case, I do. Let me hit letters as I like. The letter B! It's mine! The letter Q! That's an easy one! The letter R! Him's my favourite.
In unrelated news, the Titans won again today. Isn't it fantabulous to see that my boys from 2008 have decided to finally show up and play ball? Bit late now, but let's send some waves through the league!
I also like the fact that I felt the need to clarify that that was unrelated news. As though you wouldn't realise that Titans football and my favourite letter R are unrelated topics.
Right. I'm pulling the plug on this now.
That you're in love with meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
I'm hooked on acid. I mean a feeling. I mean a feelin'. One of those, I suppose. Dagnabbit, here I am rambling again with only the title 'Hooked on a feelin'' to work with. Perhaps my stream of consciousness will once again get me out of trouble? Actually, that's highly unlikely. Last time I relied on that, I got a Zamburu tribesman and Dick Dastardly beating on women. What does my stream of consciousness provide me with this time?
Gimme a tick... THE LEGEND OF ZELDA: A LINK TO THE PAST.
Yup. That's what my feeble little brain could muster. A Super Nintendo game from nearly twenty years ago. Good game, innit?
This weather is mighty atrocious, might I say; I really don't understand this fascination for warm weather. I mean, besides the fact that it's healthy and allows us all to go outside... Ah damn, that's the problem. I'm unhealthy and I don't go outdoors. I'm like anti...human? Scary thought.
ZOMBIFIED TONY
TONY ZOMBIE
TONBIE
You know what I'm thankful for right at this moment? The ability to touch type. Absolutely fantastic, I pity all those who are without it. I don't profess to have a great deal of muscular recognition, but in this case, I do. Let me hit letters as I like. The letter B! It's mine! The letter Q! That's an easy one! The letter R! Him's my favourite.
In unrelated news, the Titans won again today. Isn't it fantabulous to see that my boys from 2008 have decided to finally show up and play ball? Bit late now, but let's send some waves through the league!
I also like the fact that I felt the need to clarify that that was unrelated news. As though you wouldn't realise that Titans football and my favourite letter R are unrelated topics.
Right. I'm pulling the plug on this now.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The forgotten month
Thank god for Movember. If it wasn't for the yearly showing of facial hair, November really wouldn't have much to its name. It suffers from the same complex that Uranus did back when Pluto was still a planet; it's not quite the end of the year, just the forgotten segway until we get to the very end.
Sure, the US shows it some pity and throws Thanksgiving Day its way, but that's a moot point here in the land of Australia. We have nothing to give thanks for. Our harvest is shit. Our turkeys are hardly moist. And whether it be in sheer spite for its mere mention, or because I'm very forgetful, not ONCE have I celebrated Thanksgiving Day in Animal Crossing. Perhaps I should though. My house is full of cockroaches and dinosaur bones, and could really do with some new furniture.
Sure, the US shows it some pity and throws Thanksgiving Day its way, but that's a moot point here in the land of Australia. We have nothing to give thanks for. Our harvest is shit. Our turkeys are hardly moist. And whether it be in sheer spite for its mere mention, or because I'm very forgetful, not ONCE have I celebrated Thanksgiving Day in Animal Crossing. Perhaps I should though. My house is full of cockroaches and dinosaur bones, and could really do with some new furniture.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
INSANE
How would you define an energy drink that is INSANE?Would it change its name so 'they' couldn't find it? Would the voices in its head tell it that one energy shot wasn't enough? Would it feature 500 ml of INSANITY?
Well mine certainly does. In the weird, wacky world of energy drinks, making your mark can't be easy. Pretty much any energetic additive under the sun has been done before, nothing is new and exciting, and other than a few different flavours of intensity, very little is going to surprise me. Well, except maybe an energy drink loaded with ecstasy. Now that'd be insane.
I'm not expecting a whole lot from Mr. Insane here. Other than the garish log
o that reminds me of The Evil Dead's book of the dead, they're not offering me much to feel insane about. Also, under the bold heading of 'Insane Energy', they've tacked on a rather conservative label of 'juice drink'. So 'insane juice' it is, then? Insane that it doesn't have 20% real apples, and I'm not drinking it from a box with a straw?Upon tasting, you're hit with a surge, ie. Mother Surge. Nothing terribly new, I'm afraid. The taste sensation is familiar and safe, and though I was first excited by the hardcore death metal that mysteriously commenced upon tasting, I soon realised that this was coming from the headphones of the kid nearby on the train carriage. I suppose he's sacrificing his hearing to increase my insane ambience.
Every sip I take hardly feels insane. Perhaps I'm not doing this right? Or is the insane label a misnomer? Is it just easier to market than 'MILD Energy Juice Drink'? I feel maybe a little bit more energetic, slightly pensive about B vitamins, and with a longing to listen to Billy Joel. I don't think that's quite the desired effect. ...I also accidentally dunked one of my iPod headphones into the drink. I suppose that's a little insane.To its credit, for the first couple minutes after I drank it, I did feel fairly energetic. Though you could pin that on the Kenyan mocha I had this morning or the fact that I ate an entire ice cream cake yesterday, these notions are boring to me. I'll instead give full credit to the 500 MLS OF INSANITY I consumed.
On another note, it was also pleasing to swish around in my mouth like a pretentious wine critic.
FINAL GRADE: Passable. Nothing new, but nothing horrible, either.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
In October, when witches fly...
That was the statement I had before me that day. Not only would I have to fill in the blank to complete the sentence, but I was obligated to make it rhyme, too. I don't know whether it was grade one... grade two... grade three, perhaps even? All I know is that for this reason and more, Halloween has always been a pressure-filled time for me.
I think back even earlier to kindergarten, when I was dressed up as Bubsy for Halloween. One particularly smarmy little girl, decked out in tiger garb, took a look at my wardrobe and scoffed 'You're only a little cat, well I'm a tiger!', and I simply had no comeback whatsoever. If I could pull some Butterfly Effect shit, I would so have that bitch owned in spades. Like for one thing, Bubsy is a goddamn bobcat - he's all over your bitch ass tiger. Or in retrospect, perhaps she was coming onto me in a particularly domineering fashion? I don't know. I was an entirely oblivious kid, you see.
I fast forward to one of my later years in Canada, circa '95/'96ish, roaming the autumn streets for some sweet paydirt and receiving a mysterious piece of paper at one of the houses. I was particularly pleased with this piece of paper upon collecting it - who knows what it contained?
Perhaps it was a coupon for even more chocolate? Or a recipe for some wicked awesome Halloween cake? Or a LOVE LETTER? (Again, oblivious kid)
When I finally opened the note, I was distraught. Upon it was a large cross, and a message saying that unfortunately they did not celebrate Halloween, due to its non-Christian nature. They would be happy to instead celebrate Christmas, the Lord's holiday.
Well, shit. That really built me up for nothing, didn't it? Though am I mistaken in thinking that... they're actually inviting every trick or treater to their house for Christmas? I should probably cash in on that offer, actually.
Or how about the year in which I was dressed up as Sonic the Hedgehog? ...Actually, that was just a really cool year. Except when my nose fell off. My hedgehog nose, I mean. Not like my actual nose falling off. Point is, that was the second coolest costume ever, though not quite as cool as the year James dressed up as Einstein. That was totally madsauce.
What's the point I'm getting at? Well shit, there isn't one - all that bullshit about Halloween pressure just felt like awesome segway for me to start throwing out some memories before they disappear from my feeble brain. Halloween isn't what it used to be, at least not here in the land of Australia. No falling leaves, no decorations, and only a couple of kids walking around at like 5:30 looking for lollies. And none of them came up to our door, where Jess was specifically waiting with Freddo frogs. She wanted me to answer the door in my Lucifer garb, but it's a good thing nobody did come. The concept that I would be wearing a full-body costume specifically for when little kids come knocking on the door is really sad, and NOT AT ALL CHRISTIAN! Bah Halloween!
This year, I don't think I've had anything Halloween-y. Only three Halloween South Park episodes, and then it's like everyone else on television forgot. In desperation, I tried to watch Garfield's Halloween Adventure on Youtube, but Jess is over her download limit, and half an hour worth of Lorenzo Music going 'arrrrr' probably isn't worth the cost of excess download. What is the cost of excess download, incidentally? Because my Internet went over the limit about a week ago and afterwards I played lots of WoW... Hmm... glad I don't pay for it.
So a disappointing show of Halloween spirit from me. We're having a Halloween party tomorrow night, but that's lame. It's like having a Christmas party on Boxing Day; you're not fooling anyone. The only thing I learnt about Halloween today, is that it's surely a very confusing day for children.
All throughout your school years, you're specifically instructed never to talk to strangers. Never ever ever go up to strange houses, and most definitely don't accept candy from people you don't know. I learnt all of this in a class with a bird puppet in grade 1. The class wanted to name the bird Zazu, but that teacher had a particular hatred for copyright infringement so we had to call him Zazoop instead. NOT CHRISTIAN.
But anyhow, I'm digressing (shitloads); the point I'm trying to make is that we instill all this fear of strangers in kids, and then you dedicate an entire holiday to going around to strange people's houses, knocking on their doors and receiving candy from them?? I know what you're going to say; just think about the old trick or treating rule; never accept unwrapped candies. But in all fairness, some sick fuck could just get his jollies off into a whole bowl of wrapped up lollies, give them a quick wash and then hand 'em out to the kiddies.
There's some Halloween spirit for you. And no, it's NOT EVEN REMOTELY CHRISTIAN either.
...Oh, and in case you're wondering how I ended the whole 'witches fly' verse? Why, with 'One will poke you in the eye!', of course. Riveting stuff. I should be writing for the Times.
I think back even earlier to kindergarten, when I was dressed up as Bubsy for Halloween. One particularly smarmy little girl, decked out in tiger garb, took a look at my wardrobe and scoffed 'You're only a little cat, well I'm a tiger!', and I simply had no comeback whatsoever. If I could pull some Butterfly Effect shit, I would so have that bitch owned in spades. Like for one thing, Bubsy is a goddamn bobcat - he's all over your bitch ass tiger. Or in retrospect, perhaps she was coming onto me in a particularly domineering fashion? I don't know. I was an entirely oblivious kid, you see.
I fast forward to one of my later years in Canada, circa '95/'96ish, roaming the autumn streets for some sweet paydirt and receiving a mysterious piece of paper at one of the houses. I was particularly pleased with this piece of paper upon collecting it - who knows what it contained?
Perhaps it was a coupon for even more chocolate? Or a recipe for some wicked awesome Halloween cake? Or a LOVE LETTER? (Again, oblivious kid)
When I finally opened the note, I was distraught. Upon it was a large cross, and a message saying that unfortunately they did not celebrate Halloween, due to its non-Christian nature. They would be happy to instead celebrate Christmas, the Lord's holiday.
Well, shit. That really built me up for nothing, didn't it? Though am I mistaken in thinking that... they're actually inviting every trick or treater to their house for Christmas? I should probably cash in on that offer, actually.
Or how about the year in which I was dressed up as Sonic the Hedgehog? ...Actually, that was just a really cool year. Except when my nose fell off. My hedgehog nose, I mean. Not like my actual nose falling off. Point is, that was the second coolest costume ever, though not quite as cool as the year James dressed up as Einstein. That was totally madsauce.
What's the point I'm getting at? Well shit, there isn't one - all that bullshit about Halloween pressure just felt like awesome segway for me to start throwing out some memories before they disappear from my feeble brain. Halloween isn't what it used to be, at least not here in the land of Australia. No falling leaves, no decorations, and only a couple of kids walking around at like 5:30 looking for lollies. And none of them came up to our door, where Jess was specifically waiting with Freddo frogs. She wanted me to answer the door in my Lucifer garb, but it's a good thing nobody did come. The concept that I would be wearing a full-body costume specifically for when little kids come knocking on the door is really sad, and NOT AT ALL CHRISTIAN! Bah Halloween!
This year, I don't think I've had anything Halloween-y. Only three Halloween South Park episodes, and then it's like everyone else on television forgot. In desperation, I tried to watch Garfield's Halloween Adventure on Youtube, but Jess is over her download limit, and half an hour worth of Lorenzo Music going 'arrrrr' probably isn't worth the cost of excess download. What is the cost of excess download, incidentally? Because my Internet went over the limit about a week ago and afterwards I played lots of WoW... Hmm... glad I don't pay for it.
So a disappointing show of Halloween spirit from me. We're having a Halloween party tomorrow night, but that's lame. It's like having a Christmas party on Boxing Day; you're not fooling anyone. The only thing I learnt about Halloween today, is that it's surely a very confusing day for children.
All throughout your school years, you're specifically instructed never to talk to strangers. Never ever ever go up to strange houses, and most definitely don't accept candy from people you don't know. I learnt all of this in a class with a bird puppet in grade 1. The class wanted to name the bird Zazu, but that teacher had a particular hatred for copyright infringement so we had to call him Zazoop instead. NOT CHRISTIAN.
But anyhow, I'm digressing (shitloads); the point I'm trying to make is that we instill all this fear of strangers in kids, and then you dedicate an entire holiday to going around to strange people's houses, knocking on their doors and receiving candy from them?? I know what you're going to say; just think about the old trick or treating rule; never accept unwrapped candies. But in all fairness, some sick fuck could just get his jollies off into a whole bowl of wrapped up lollies, give them a quick wash and then hand 'em out to the kiddies.
There's some Halloween spirit for you. And no, it's NOT EVEN REMOTELY CHRISTIAN either.
...Oh, and in case you're wondering how I ended the whole 'witches fly' verse? Why, with 'One will poke you in the eye!', of course. Riveting stuff. I should be writing for the Times.
Monday, October 12, 2009
31-9
That game was so bad it actually sobered me up. Remarkable!
That's the way to overcome alcoholism... '09 Titans football. ~_~
...I called it, by the way. So it ain't all bad - at least now I look really clever.
http://www.gotitans.com/goForum/showthread.php?t=52615&page=2
That's the way to overcome alcoholism... '09 Titans football. ~_~
...I called it, by the way. So it ain't all bad - at least now I look really clever.
http://www.gotitans.com/goForum/showthread.php?t=52615&page=2
Don your futility belt
En route to 0-5... where are my fucking Titans? I really don't want to go back to the dark ages of '04/'05... After last year's miraculous run, I'd forgotten what it was like to cheer for a shithouse team.
Four weeks into the season and already the Titans have lost as many games as they did all season last year... More if you don't include the playoff game. Can't believe I'm here right now, having turned my back on a Titans game. I never see Titans games; televised Titans football is very important and special to me. But I don't want to see this. Unbelievable.
Need more beer, but ran out at halftime. Should break out the wine.
Put in Lavelle Hawkins! He can't be any worse than the offence we got going right now, and he at least has a cool name.
Four weeks into the season and already the Titans have lost as many games as they did all season last year... More if you don't include the playoff game. Can't believe I'm here right now, having turned my back on a Titans game. I never see Titans games; televised Titans football is very important and special to me. But I don't want to see this. Unbelievable.
Need more beer, but ran out at halftime. Should break out the wine.
Put in Lavelle Hawkins! He can't be any worse than the offence we got going right now, and he at least has a cool name.
The guise of a hobo
It's certainly been quite some time since I've shaven or gotten my hair cut. As you might expect, I've grown quite a head of hair in this time. Add to this my arsenal of dirty hooded jumpers and $10 Westco jeans with the missing rear belt notch, and I've assembled quite a unique look. One that I like to refer to as 'hobo chique'. The only thing that betrays my image is my ever-present iPod headphones and nice watch.Once Chris and I conclude filming for his uni project and I can drop the Howard Bachman look, I'll finally be dropping this unsightly mane.
You know, it's interesting... So many people project a persona based on their appearance. Black leather and eyeshadow, we dub them emo. Baggy pants and bandannas, they're clearly wiggers. The list goes on, and though I won't miss this shaggy mess getting in my way, I must admit I will rather miss the persona I've been projecting, largely due to its accuracy.
And that is, I don't care what people's opinion of me is on a day-to-day basis. Write me off as a hobo, that's great, because that means you've judged me as an unintelligent failure, possibly not quite right in the head as well.
With this, I can simply observe the world through the eyes of someone who is considered lower.
I sometimes even contemplate taking my shoes off and wandering the streets of Melbourne appearing the way I do now. To interact as a homeless guy, to try and briefly live that life, surrounded by pity and disgust.
What do I stand to gain? Little more than understanding, really. Understanding of these unfortunate souls who I myself ignore, and a closer look at just how generous and compassionate manking really is.
It's not a common hobby; meandering about as a hobo... But I have a thirst for an understanding of people as a whole. Not individuals... individuals are easy to understand. It's us as a people that confound me.
I often cite Tommy Lee Jones' brilliant line in Men in Black; 'A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky, dangerous animals and you know it.'
In about a week, I'll lose this disguise of sorts and go back to being a normal person. To be judged as more or less an equal, rather than something else, something alien. To not capitalise on this seems almost a waste, y'know?
But we all know I won't be ballsy enough to try this experiment out. The best I can do is continue to observe as the outsider.
Funny, isn't it, how social status really is a numbers game. To be an outsider is based simply on being placed in a minority, an existence different from what's considered to be normal. I wonder how many social circles I could be part of? I wonder which I could never join, and for what reasons?
Moreover, like my 'hobo in disguise' idea, I wonder if I could infiltrate these other worlds that I'm not a part of? Could I pass for an emo? A wigger? A brainless commoner? Lord knows I see enough of them in everyday life to be able to emulate them.
I myself am a rather ecclectic blend of personas, as we all really are. As you may have gathered, I possess a distinct loathing for the aimless, uneducated masses. But, would you believe, I have a far stronger contempt towards the spoilt pricks who have never worked a day in their lives and expect to merely receive everything they want.
You know what is really important to me? Being down to earth and modest. I might toot my horn here with regularity, and I do carry a certain confidence or swagger, but I can admit my faults. I won't exaggerate my self-opinion to escalate my worth. I can appreciate the reality of the world around me and, most of all, I won't make others look bad to raise my own status.
Basically, if you're humble and not an asshole, I can tolerate you. Two of the most repellant and detestable people I know have an over-inflated self opinion. Others have no understanding of hardship, or compassion for those who have experienced it.
I know I'm a pretentious git... but as long as I don't become like those people, I can say that I'm a likable person.
At least... I like me.
You may not, of course. And as longa s these reasons are valid and based in truth, I can appreciate that. You know why it's so easy for me to accept it? Because, beard or no beard, I am he who observes, and he who isolates. As aforementioned, I really don't care.
* If you noticed a contradiction or two in the preceding, it's best not to dwell on it. My inconsistency is well-documented, and likely half of what you read was merely done for purposes of clever wording in order to sound swish.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Give me big shoes
Alright, stream of consciousness; type it as I think it.
Usually, this just results in a whole lot of incoherent shit pouring forth onto the page, but this morning I feel strangely confident that it'll result in worthwhile BLOGstuff.
...Alright, first problem; my mind has gone blank. What do you type from your stream of consciousness when said consciousness appears to be non-existent? I hadn't realised 'existent' was spelt with an E. I kinda thought it was 'existant'. ...On second thought, I can see that looks wrong. That's the funny thing about incorrectly spelt words; they just look queer somehow. Something else is queer; apparently Blogger doesn't think spelt is a word. Oh hang on, that time the little red line didn't come up. That's crap! Stop being subjective with your spelling, you stupid autochecker! You can't define one word as being faulty, and then go ahead and dub the exact same word in a later example as being acceptable.
So Jana came back with her cats yesterday. Right now, I'm working out the logistics of everything. Namely juggling animals about; trying to calm Peppy who can't come inside on the one hand, while trying to keep the cats who can't go outside in check on the other side. That, and the little bastards were meowling at my door at 7 in the morning today. I kindly told them where to go, and they promptly did. Kira is a neurotic little bitch, but at least Bosley doesn't have attitude. I reckon you could throw that cat into a boiling vat of oil, and he'll just be like 'meh'. He has a tendency to jump up everywhere though. ...You can see it in his eyes; he crouches down, ponders it for a moment, and then... HEEYAH! Big fluffy ragdoll ass in your face.
My stream of consciousness sucks. I nearly typed 'steam of consciousness'. What would a steam of consciousness be, I wonder? Self-aware steam of some sort? Bizarre Love Triangle playing on the radio right now... I miss it when music was kickass. Nowadays it's all the same shit, and all that shit is lame. Thank God for Scissor Sisters trying to be different. Laura is reason enough to have faith in music of today (okay, so Laura isn't exactly from today... but if you want to be specific, I'm not aware of any songs that were released within the last 9 and a half hours, so there).
Single Ladies is what today's music is. Despite Kanye's idiotic protest, the music video is shit. Being black and white doesn't make it 'THE BEST VIDEO OF ALL TIME'. Perhaps he saw a different music video from all of us? Maybe what he actually saw was Taylor Swift's music video, got so excited that he forgot that it wasn't Beyonce and got the two mixed up. Easy mistake to make. Though not so much in Kanye's case because Taylor Swift is white, and for that reason he hates her with a passion. He hates me with a passion too, but that's why I surround myself with so many black friends. In the mere hope that perhaps Kanye will overlook my whiteness and be my friend.
...Actually, I don't want to be his friend. He's a prick. Still, I like hanging out with black people. They're cooler than I am, so by association, I'm cool.
...Yup. Single Ladies is shithouse. Just consider the lyrics.
[Chorus]
ALL THE SINGLE LADIES ALL THE SINGLE LADIES ALL THE SINGLE LADIES ALL THE SINGLE LADIES ALL THE SINGLE LADIES ALL THE SINGLE LADIES ALL THE SINGLE LADIES
IF YOU LIKE IT YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT IF YOU LIKE IT YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT IF YOU LIKE IT YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT IF YOU LIKE IT YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT IF YOU LIKE IT YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT IF YOU LIKE IT YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT
WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH
[Verse 1]
Now put your hands up
Up in the club (club, just broke up (up)
I'm doing my own little thing
You decided to dip (dip) and now you wanna trip (trip)
Cuz another brother noticed me
I'm up on him (him), he up on me (me)
Don't pay him any attention
Done cried my tears (tears), for three good years(years)
Ya can't be mad at me
[Chorus]
Verse 2
I got gloss on my lips (lips), a man on my hips(hips)
Hold me tighter than my Dereon jeans
Acting up (up), drink in my cup (cup)
I can care less what you think
I need no permission, did I mention
Don't pay him any attention
Cuz you had your turn (turn)
And now you gone learn
Wat it really feels like to miss me
It reads like a goddamn Twitter post.
So I suppose you'd then ask me 'Tony you silly fool, what kind of music do you like then?' and I proudly reply that my musical tastes aren't limited by genre. If I likes a song, I likes a song, no matter who sings it.
Even today's stuff has some bright points - I liked Ne-Yo's 'Closer' so much I bought it on iTunes. That's right! That song was worth $1.69 to me! To a miserly old bastard like me, that's like gold! Scottish gold!!
You know who I'd recommend to everyone? Stevie Wonder. That guy has a kickass voice, and kickass muscial talent to go with it. If today's music was all made up of variations of Stevie Wonder, that'd be really cool. Then I'd like today's music. Let's make it happen, world! Let's make it happen, Stevie! Somehow, I think that my wish will never be granted. It was a slightly selfish wish, I suppose. I should have wished for world peace, or a way of wiping out famine. Those would have been better wishes than more Stevie Wonder.
My current cure for famine is indeed excellent, but it's lowbrow humour that I need not resort to. Simply because Jessica gets mad at me when I say horrible things in jest, and I don't need Jessica to be mad at me, if she should be happening to read this BLOG. In which case, hello Jess! I'm only saying nice things today.
Nice nice nice.
Nice.
The word nice reminds me of Nike. And that reminds me of that commercial they had with the Samburu tribesman, who states something to the camera in his native tongue, which Nike translated on-screen as 'Just Do It'. In actual fact, he had said 'I don't want these. Give me big shoes.'
It's true. I'm not shitting you. Look it up on Snopes.
That is utterly fantastic. I just wonder how Nike can use their new slogon. Just picture the biggest sporting stars working out in their Nikes, sweat pouring from their body and excessive closeups on their feet, before they walk up to the camera, flash a winning grin and tell the world 'I don't want these. GIVE ME BIG SHOES.'
Win. I must also confess, I had to refer to Snopes for accuracy. My stream of consciousness had 'Samburu tribesman' down as 'tribal dude'. I think tribal dude might have been acceptable, but I like to look like I know exactly what I'm talking about. In actuality, I think it just makes it look exactly how it is; that I just feel a need to refer to shit whenever I'm trying to look smart. It's like a nerd citing quotes from a book, just before some surly fuck bashes him and takes his lunch money. I've got like four bucks and a few nickels in my pocket. Shit, that sounds like lunch money to me!
I sometimes wonder... getting your lunch money stolen by bullies is such a common cliche... But do they really spend it on lunch? Just picture this big, mean little kid, pounding on the poor unfortunate victim, taking the frustration of his horrible home life and the futility of his aimless future out upon the prone figure of this feeble nerd before him. There's blood on his knuckles and spittle flying from his mouth as he makes impact upon the bare flesh of the kid's face. Then, with one definitive wrench, he rips some coins from his prey's pockets, and holds them defiantly over his head, laughing a cruel, throaty laugh...
...Then he goes to the lunch lady and buys hisself an ice-cream.
What is a good bully flavour? I'm inclined to think chocolate.
I don't know about you, but I visualised that whole sick scenario in my head as I typed it. For some reason, my bully is a freckled redhead. No wonder he's so mad. And for some unfortunate reason, the victim actually looks like me. I really want to get rid of the money in my pocket right now. If there's a knocking at the door, and some redheaded twelve year old on the other side, I'm fucked. I'll scream like a little girl and just throw the accursed coins at him like raw meat to baying hounds.
What does 'baying' mean, anyway? I could look it up, but I won't. I'll just assume it's akin to being really dastardly and twirling a non-existent moustache. I like the concept that evil dogs are doing the equivalent to wearing top-hats, cackling to themselves and then tying the helpless maiden to a railroad track.
By the way, that's another thing I want to address. When we were kids, it was a common thing for villains to do; tie helpless maidens to railroad tracks, yeah? (Not so much in today's cartoons... I don't know what's happening in all that Ben 10 shit but I think bad guys are turning into fiery monsters these days and their need for railroad tracks are limited)
But anyway, it happened so much we just accepted it as fact... but shit man, that's fucking cruel shit right there. That train would fuck her up soooooooo bad!! It would be a horrible fucking mess and an awful way to die. We used to just think of these villains as being a bit cheeky, and we kinda liked them because they would be bumbling and mutter their little plans to themselves and to us in essence, so we felt like they were part of a team, but no. Just no. I don't want to associate with any bastard who's going to tie poor women to railroad tracks. Fuck you, Dick Dastardly. Fuck you and your whole posse.
Bizarre. Now my earlier bully scenario has transformed before my very eyes. Now the bully is Dick Dastardly, and the victim is Penelope Pitstop. Now there are entirely new connotations, and they circulate entirely against violence against women.
Dick Dastardly sitting in a chair looking at the camera. He looks annoyed and frustrated.
'I got really angry and I just gave her a slap, you know. Stuff happens. But she knows, I mean, she deserved it.'
No she didn't.
Muttley peers into the camera lens. He speaks matter of factly, clearly not feeling as though he is part of the problem.
'Yeah, I know this bloke. And we all know he hits his girlfriend. It's never in front of people, but she won't do anything. And I can't say anything, can I?'
Yes you can.
Sylvester Sneekly in a room. He holds his Hooded Claw disguise tightly in his grasp. His knuckles are white, so we know he's squeezing it pretty tight. Other than that though, he appears nonchalant.
'Well, you just lose control sometimes. It's only shoving and stuff, it's not like I'm one of those blokes who beats up on a woman.'
Yes you are.
This is really making me re-think Hanna-Barbera cartoons. I think my stream of consciousness has led me astray in frightening, unforeseen ways. Like a child skipping merrily through a wooded area, not noticing that the deeper they go, the darker and more menacing the surroundings become, until they find themselves deep in a perilous forest, lost and afraid.
I think I should pull the plug on this whole thing right now. I'll be escaping my menacing forest, thank you very much. Just sorry to leave everyone else trapped within the concepts of it. I mean, unless you really weren't paying attention, in which case my words didn't faze you at all and you could theoretically just fly out of the forest.
Usually, this just results in a whole lot of incoherent shit pouring forth onto the page, but this morning I feel strangely confident that it'll result in worthwhile BLOGstuff.
...Alright, first problem; my mind has gone blank. What do you type from your stream of consciousness when said consciousness appears to be non-existent? I hadn't realised 'existent' was spelt with an E. I kinda thought it was 'existant'. ...On second thought, I can see that looks wrong. That's the funny thing about incorrectly spelt words; they just look queer somehow. Something else is queer; apparently Blogger doesn't think spelt is a word. Oh hang on, that time the little red line didn't come up. That's crap! Stop being subjective with your spelling, you stupid autochecker! You can't define one word as being faulty, and then go ahead and dub the exact same word in a later example as being acceptable.
So Jana came back with her cats yesterday. Right now, I'm working out the logistics of everything. Namely juggling animals about; trying to calm Peppy who can't come inside on the one hand, while trying to keep the cats who can't go outside in check on the other side. That, and the little bastards were meowling at my door at 7 in the morning today. I kindly told them where to go, and they promptly did. Kira is a neurotic little bitch, but at least Bosley doesn't have attitude. I reckon you could throw that cat into a boiling vat of oil, and he'll just be like 'meh'. He has a tendency to jump up everywhere though. ...You can see it in his eyes; he crouches down, ponders it for a moment, and then... HEEYAH! Big fluffy ragdoll ass in your face.
My stream of consciousness sucks. I nearly typed 'steam of consciousness'. What would a steam of consciousness be, I wonder? Self-aware steam of some sort? Bizarre Love Triangle playing on the radio right now... I miss it when music was kickass. Nowadays it's all the same shit, and all that shit is lame. Thank God for Scissor Sisters trying to be different. Laura is reason enough to have faith in music of today (okay, so Laura isn't exactly from today... but if you want to be specific, I'm not aware of any songs that were released within the last 9 and a half hours, so there).
Single Ladies is what today's music is. Despite Kanye's idiotic protest, the music video is shit. Being black and white doesn't make it 'THE BEST VIDEO OF ALL TIME'. Perhaps he saw a different music video from all of us? Maybe what he actually saw was Taylor Swift's music video, got so excited that he forgot that it wasn't Beyonce and got the two mixed up. Easy mistake to make. Though not so much in Kanye's case because Taylor Swift is white, and for that reason he hates her with a passion. He hates me with a passion too, but that's why I surround myself with so many black friends. In the mere hope that perhaps Kanye will overlook my whiteness and be my friend.
...Actually, I don't want to be his friend. He's a prick. Still, I like hanging out with black people. They're cooler than I am, so by association, I'm cool.
...Yup. Single Ladies is shithouse. Just consider the lyrics.
[Chorus]
ALL THE SINGLE LADIES ALL THE SINGLE LADIES ALL THE SINGLE LADIES ALL THE SINGLE LADIES ALL THE SINGLE LADIES ALL THE SINGLE LADIES ALL THE SINGLE LADIES
IF YOU LIKE IT YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT IF YOU LIKE IT YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT IF YOU LIKE IT YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT IF YOU LIKE IT YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT IF YOU LIKE IT YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT IF YOU LIKE IT YOU SHOULDA PUT A RING ON IT
WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH WOAH-HO-HO-HO-OH-OH-OH
[Verse 1]
Now put your hands up
Up in the club (club, just broke up (up)
I'm doing my own little thing
You decided to dip (dip) and now you wanna trip (trip)
Cuz another brother noticed me
I'm up on him (him), he up on me (me)
Don't pay him any attention
Done cried my tears (tears), for three good years(years)
Ya can't be mad at me
[Chorus]
Verse 2
I got gloss on my lips (lips), a man on my hips(hips)
Hold me tighter than my Dereon jeans
Acting up (up), drink in my cup (cup)
I can care less what you think
I need no permission, did I mention
Don't pay him any attention
Cuz you had your turn (turn)
And now you gone learn
Wat it really feels like to miss me
It reads like a goddamn Twitter post.
So I suppose you'd then ask me 'Tony you silly fool, what kind of music do you like then?' and I proudly reply that my musical tastes aren't limited by genre. If I likes a song, I likes a song, no matter who sings it.
Even today's stuff has some bright points - I liked Ne-Yo's 'Closer' so much I bought it on iTunes. That's right! That song was worth $1.69 to me! To a miserly old bastard like me, that's like gold! Scottish gold!!
You know who I'd recommend to everyone? Stevie Wonder. That guy has a kickass voice, and kickass muscial talent to go with it. If today's music was all made up of variations of Stevie Wonder, that'd be really cool. Then I'd like today's music. Let's make it happen, world! Let's make it happen, Stevie! Somehow, I think that my wish will never be granted. It was a slightly selfish wish, I suppose. I should have wished for world peace, or a way of wiping out famine. Those would have been better wishes than more Stevie Wonder.
My current cure for famine is indeed excellent, but it's lowbrow humour that I need not resort to. Simply because Jessica gets mad at me when I say horrible things in jest, and I don't need Jessica to be mad at me, if she should be happening to read this BLOG. In which case, hello Jess! I'm only saying nice things today.
Nice nice nice.
Nice.
The word nice reminds me of Nike. And that reminds me of that commercial they had with the Samburu tribesman, who states something to the camera in his native tongue, which Nike translated on-screen as 'Just Do It'. In actual fact, he had said 'I don't want these. Give me big shoes.'
It's true. I'm not shitting you. Look it up on Snopes.
That is utterly fantastic. I just wonder how Nike can use their new slogon. Just picture the biggest sporting stars working out in their Nikes, sweat pouring from their body and excessive closeups on their feet, before they walk up to the camera, flash a winning grin and tell the world 'I don't want these. GIVE ME BIG SHOES.'
Win. I must also confess, I had to refer to Snopes for accuracy. My stream of consciousness had 'Samburu tribesman' down as 'tribal dude'. I think tribal dude might have been acceptable, but I like to look like I know exactly what I'm talking about. In actuality, I think it just makes it look exactly how it is; that I just feel a need to refer to shit whenever I'm trying to look smart. It's like a nerd citing quotes from a book, just before some surly fuck bashes him and takes his lunch money. I've got like four bucks and a few nickels in my pocket. Shit, that sounds like lunch money to me!
I sometimes wonder... getting your lunch money stolen by bullies is such a common cliche... But do they really spend it on lunch? Just picture this big, mean little kid, pounding on the poor unfortunate victim, taking the frustration of his horrible home life and the futility of his aimless future out upon the prone figure of this feeble nerd before him. There's blood on his knuckles and spittle flying from his mouth as he makes impact upon the bare flesh of the kid's face. Then, with one definitive wrench, he rips some coins from his prey's pockets, and holds them defiantly over his head, laughing a cruel, throaty laugh...
...Then he goes to the lunch lady and buys hisself an ice-cream.
What is a good bully flavour? I'm inclined to think chocolate.
I don't know about you, but I visualised that whole sick scenario in my head as I typed it. For some reason, my bully is a freckled redhead. No wonder he's so mad. And for some unfortunate reason, the victim actually looks like me. I really want to get rid of the money in my pocket right now. If there's a knocking at the door, and some redheaded twelve year old on the other side, I'm fucked. I'll scream like a little girl and just throw the accursed coins at him like raw meat to baying hounds.
What does 'baying' mean, anyway? I could look it up, but I won't. I'll just assume it's akin to being really dastardly and twirling a non-existent moustache. I like the concept that evil dogs are doing the equivalent to wearing top-hats, cackling to themselves and then tying the helpless maiden to a railroad track.
By the way, that's another thing I want to address. When we were kids, it was a common thing for villains to do; tie helpless maidens to railroad tracks, yeah? (Not so much in today's cartoons... I don't know what's happening in all that Ben 10 shit but I think bad guys are turning into fiery monsters these days and their need for railroad tracks are limited)
But anyway, it happened so much we just accepted it as fact... but shit man, that's fucking cruel shit right there. That train would fuck her up soooooooo bad!! It would be a horrible fucking mess and an awful way to die. We used to just think of these villains as being a bit cheeky, and we kinda liked them because they would be bumbling and mutter their little plans to themselves and to us in essence, so we felt like they were part of a team, but no. Just no. I don't want to associate with any bastard who's going to tie poor women to railroad tracks. Fuck you, Dick Dastardly. Fuck you and your whole posse.
Bizarre. Now my earlier bully scenario has transformed before my very eyes. Now the bully is Dick Dastardly, and the victim is Penelope Pitstop. Now there are entirely new connotations, and they circulate entirely against violence against women.
Dick Dastardly sitting in a chair looking at the camera. He looks annoyed and frustrated.
'I got really angry and I just gave her a slap, you know. Stuff happens. But she knows, I mean, she deserved it.'
No she didn't.
Muttley peers into the camera lens. He speaks matter of factly, clearly not feeling as though he is part of the problem.
'Yeah, I know this bloke. And we all know he hits his girlfriend. It's never in front of people, but she won't do anything. And I can't say anything, can I?'
Yes you can.
Sylvester Sneekly in a room. He holds his Hooded Claw disguise tightly in his grasp. His knuckles are white, so we know he's squeezing it pretty tight. Other than that though, he appears nonchalant.
'Well, you just lose control sometimes. It's only shoving and stuff, it's not like I'm one of those blokes who beats up on a woman.'
Yes you are.
This is really making me re-think Hanna-Barbera cartoons. I think my stream of consciousness has led me astray in frightening, unforeseen ways. Like a child skipping merrily through a wooded area, not noticing that the deeper they go, the darker and more menacing the surroundings become, until they find themselves deep in a perilous forest, lost and afraid.
I think I should pull the plug on this whole thing right now. I'll be escaping my menacing forest, thank you very much. Just sorry to leave everyone else trapped within the concepts of it. I mean, unless you really weren't paying attention, in which case my words didn't faze you at all and you could theoretically just fly out of the forest.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Ugh...
And you know what's funny? Even with all of this talent and wit that I keep claiming to have, I STILL can't come up with good material for a worthwhile voice acting demo reel.
What in the hell is wrong with me?? Why is it that whenever I have actual work to get done, my creativity just gets shot to high hell? It's like my brain wants me to fail...
What in the hell is wrong with me?? Why is it that whenever I have actual work to get done, my creativity just gets shot to high hell? It's like my brain wants me to fail...
Friday, October 9, 2009
You BASTARD
Aww, when I changed the time/date of my BLOG, Blogger decided to be a right prick and adjust all of the times and dates of my archives, too.
Well shit. I somehow doubt I'll have the urge to bother rectifying that. Ah well.
Well shit. I somehow doubt I'll have the urge to bother rectifying that. Ah well.
Wilfork
Suddenly feeling an inexplicable urge to take BLOGgin' back up... Which is a damn shame, considering nobody reads my BLOG anymore. Back in the day, I'd be able to jot down any old crap and expect at least a response or two.
But no mas.
Nowadays, I'm spouting my witticisms into the blank, empty abyss that is the Internet... a place where dreams go to die. Or at least get altered into pornography of some description.
Damnation, I really didn't have anything to type, did I? Why actually, yes I did, but it's roughly a month later than it should have been. Just watching week one's Bills/Pats Monday night matchup, and have to declare - the personal foul called on Vince Wilfork early in the third quarter was absolute BULLSHIT. I can't believe how incredibly ridiculous that call was! I thought the flag was for intentional grounding, because that's the only goddamn penalty I saw on that play.
Isn't it funny how as our awareness of the game's nuances evolve, the officiating has somehow over the last couple of years degenerated to absolute shit? I say this with great caution, because I'm almost certain that idiot Goodell is scanning the web for any negative words spoken of his precious officials... I'm half-expecting a fine here.
Alright. Enough about football games that happened four weeks ago. Let's get to the world of today, shall we? It seems to me as though I'm a strange mix of lethargy and insomnia these days... I can't get to sleep at night, but during my waking hours it's all I want to do.
I can't decipher exactly why my body would have wanted to shift to a nocturnal state, but I just assume that I'm so highly evolved that it has its reasons, that we shall all discover shortly. I recommend everyone else makes the change quickly, before suddenly going to bed at 1 am is all the rage, and you missed your chance!
Sorry, what?
Ah yes, BLOG. You know, it's funny - I occasionally scan over the most frequently read BLOGs to see what the popular kids have on offer, and it would appear as though at the moment, I'm mightily outmatched.
Right now, the State of MANtana offers helpful advice on how women can please a man (namely by 'shutting the fuck up and getting me a sandwich'), DocManJay is proudly stating his belief of God, while Human Evolution has amusingly chosen to write a BLOG about why religion is wrong. Add in there Eminem celebrating the fifth anniversary of Shade 45 (one line of text followed by a video from another website is enough to garner 157 kudos, incidentally... In my years of BLOGging, I've collected 55).
Put simply, I'm fucked. You know what my conversational piece was? Vince Wilfork tackling Trent Edwards four fucking weeks ago. I don't think that will be enough to evoke in my reading public an intense urge to weigh in on this exciting debate. And even if they were to read, I'm sure that they'd be more interested as to when and why it was that I started saying 'fuck' in my BLOGs.
Self-censorship was cute for years, but my opinions aren't PG, I've finally realised. All because popular programming need adhere to restrictions in order for them to remain in popular syndication, I myself have the glorious luxury of not being in syndication. ...Or popular, for that matter.
Besides, I was a lazy man to begin with, and years of becoming a jaded theatre twat have soured me into this bitter shell of a thing with an ego that's a queer combination of being both tattered and deflated, as well as an insatiable hunger for my services somehow becoming desirable.
I hadn't intended to go on an acting spiel, but why the hell not. It was either that or Wilfork.
So anyhow, I'm talented. Massively talented. More talented than the whole State of MANtana, for that matter. It's just such a pity and a shame that the unwashed masses haven't quite cottoned onto that yet. It's a curious thing, really, this egotistical view that I'm above the people, while so desperately seeking their recognition. Some years ago, my good friend Chris Lane realised that his contempt for the idiotic everyman meant that he need not pander to them and be out there to please them. He became a far more focused, driven individual than I'd ever seen him before due to this.
Not me, however. I want people to give a shit that I'm a violent alcoholic who churns out shitty movies at a fervent rate, constantly with the 'troubled' label attached to my name. The media really need to come up with more buzz words. Every goddamn celebrity out there is described as 'troubled'.
Just letting you know, budding journalists, Amy Winehouse is not troubled. She is in actual fact what we like to call a shithead.
When will it be my turn, dammit? Jessica used to reprimand me for so desperately seeking fame, considering it to be shallow and potentially dangerous, but did it deter me in the slightest? Nope.
It's a funny thing, you know, because you ask nearly any celebrity out there, and they'll tell you that they miss the anonymity of everyday life. That they'd trade all the money, fame and glory in the world to just be like everyone else...
Bullshit.
The apathetic at best, but more likely completely oblivious public opinion I hold is one of the most infuriating things in my life; something that I gripe about constantly and desperately long for a change. You could in all fairness say that I've never experienced the celebrities' lives, so I can't really judge them. And I can't offer a counter-argument to that... No, I've never been famous. I could very possibly end up hating it and eat these very words I'm spouting out so furiously.
But... you just feel it, you know? It's what I want. I've had to scale back every now and then in accordance with what I can realistically expect from life; at one time I intended to be the world's greatest actor, but over the years it's occurred to me that, unfortunately, I'm not really much of an actor. Any straight roles I've played could be kindly described as shithouse. Rather content then to be known as the world's greatest character actor, time slowly wore away at that notion too, as my mind started ticking in unfortunate ways until I'd convinced myself that I'm not exactly doing great shakes in character acting; what I portray is less about acting, just more about being extravagant and big. Well shit, I'm just an entertainer then.
A great many things I'm apparently not, but I'm still pretty certain that I've got enough marketability to make something happen. It's a damn shame that it doesn't come with any kind of work ethic whatsoever; I've done jack shit for years and I've got mostly myself to blame for that. Tragically, my once very reasonable belief that I would just somehow become famous without any effort whatsoever seems slightly less reasonable nowadays.
Christ, I'm probably going to regret posting this somehow. I really am an arrogant, pompous prick when it comes down to it. I guess that's the good thing about having a BLOG that nobody reads anymore; you can feel good that you've expressed yourself without any fear of repercussions afterwards.
And honestly, looking back on what this BLOG has become, even I myself must declare...
tl;dr
But no mas.
Nowadays, I'm spouting my witticisms into the blank, empty abyss that is the Internet... a place where dreams go to die. Or at least get altered into pornography of some description.
Damnation, I really didn't have anything to type, did I? Why actually, yes I did, but it's roughly a month later than it should have been. Just watching week one's Bills/Pats Monday night matchup, and have to declare - the personal foul called on Vince Wilfork early in the third quarter was absolute BULLSHIT. I can't believe how incredibly ridiculous that call was! I thought the flag was for intentional grounding, because that's the only goddamn penalty I saw on that play.
Isn't it funny how as our awareness of the game's nuances evolve, the officiating has somehow over the last couple of years degenerated to absolute shit? I say this with great caution, because I'm almost certain that idiot Goodell is scanning the web for any negative words spoken of his precious officials... I'm half-expecting a fine here.
Alright. Enough about football games that happened four weeks ago. Let's get to the world of today, shall we? It seems to me as though I'm a strange mix of lethargy and insomnia these days... I can't get to sleep at night, but during my waking hours it's all I want to do.
I can't decipher exactly why my body would have wanted to shift to a nocturnal state, but I just assume that I'm so highly evolved that it has its reasons, that we shall all discover shortly. I recommend everyone else makes the change quickly, before suddenly going to bed at 1 am is all the rage, and you missed your chance!
Sorry, what?
Ah yes, BLOG. You know, it's funny - I occasionally scan over the most frequently read BLOGs to see what the popular kids have on offer, and it would appear as though at the moment, I'm mightily outmatched.
Right now, the State of MANtana offers helpful advice on how women can please a man (namely by 'shutting the fuck up and getting me a sandwich'), DocManJay is proudly stating his belief of God, while Human Evolution has amusingly chosen to write a BLOG about why religion is wrong. Add in there Eminem celebrating the fifth anniversary of Shade 45 (one line of text followed by a video from another website is enough to garner 157 kudos, incidentally... In my years of BLOGging, I've collected 55).
Put simply, I'm fucked. You know what my conversational piece was? Vince Wilfork tackling Trent Edwards four fucking weeks ago. I don't think that will be enough to evoke in my reading public an intense urge to weigh in on this exciting debate. And even if they were to read, I'm sure that they'd be more interested as to when and why it was that I started saying 'fuck' in my BLOGs.
Self-censorship was cute for years, but my opinions aren't PG, I've finally realised. All because popular programming need adhere to restrictions in order for them to remain in popular syndication, I myself have the glorious luxury of not being in syndication. ...Or popular, for that matter.
Besides, I was a lazy man to begin with, and years of becoming a jaded theatre twat have soured me into this bitter shell of a thing with an ego that's a queer combination of being both tattered and deflated, as well as an insatiable hunger for my services somehow becoming desirable.
I hadn't intended to go on an acting spiel, but why the hell not. It was either that or Wilfork.
So anyhow, I'm talented. Massively talented. More talented than the whole State of MANtana, for that matter. It's just such a pity and a shame that the unwashed masses haven't quite cottoned onto that yet. It's a curious thing, really, this egotistical view that I'm above the people, while so desperately seeking their recognition. Some years ago, my good friend Chris Lane realised that his contempt for the idiotic everyman meant that he need not pander to them and be out there to please them. He became a far more focused, driven individual than I'd ever seen him before due to this.
Not me, however. I want people to give a shit that I'm a violent alcoholic who churns out shitty movies at a fervent rate, constantly with the 'troubled' label attached to my name. The media really need to come up with more buzz words. Every goddamn celebrity out there is described as 'troubled'.
Just letting you know, budding journalists, Amy Winehouse is not troubled. She is in actual fact what we like to call a shithead.
When will it be my turn, dammit? Jessica used to reprimand me for so desperately seeking fame, considering it to be shallow and potentially dangerous, but did it deter me in the slightest? Nope.
It's a funny thing, you know, because you ask nearly any celebrity out there, and they'll tell you that they miss the anonymity of everyday life. That they'd trade all the money, fame and glory in the world to just be like everyone else...
Bullshit.
The apathetic at best, but more likely completely oblivious public opinion I hold is one of the most infuriating things in my life; something that I gripe about constantly and desperately long for a change. You could in all fairness say that I've never experienced the celebrities' lives, so I can't really judge them. And I can't offer a counter-argument to that... No, I've never been famous. I could very possibly end up hating it and eat these very words I'm spouting out so furiously.
But... you just feel it, you know? It's what I want. I've had to scale back every now and then in accordance with what I can realistically expect from life; at one time I intended to be the world's greatest actor, but over the years it's occurred to me that, unfortunately, I'm not really much of an actor. Any straight roles I've played could be kindly described as shithouse. Rather content then to be known as the world's greatest character actor, time slowly wore away at that notion too, as my mind started ticking in unfortunate ways until I'd convinced myself that I'm not exactly doing great shakes in character acting; what I portray is less about acting, just more about being extravagant and big. Well shit, I'm just an entertainer then.
A great many things I'm apparently not, but I'm still pretty certain that I've got enough marketability to make something happen. It's a damn shame that it doesn't come with any kind of work ethic whatsoever; I've done jack shit for years and I've got mostly myself to blame for that. Tragically, my once very reasonable belief that I would just somehow become famous without any effort whatsoever seems slightly less reasonable nowadays.
Christ, I'm probably going to regret posting this somehow. I really am an arrogant, pompous prick when it comes down to it. I guess that's the good thing about having a BLOG that nobody reads anymore; you can feel good that you've expressed yourself without any fear of repercussions afterwards.
And honestly, looking back on what this BLOG has become, even I myself must declare...
tl;dr
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Formatting FTW
Oh hellz yeah, I've only now just worked out how to kindly inform Blogger that I'm not a Yank, allowing me to post BLOG entries from my own timezone.
In case y'all thought I was some kind of weirdo who BLOGs about paintball at 5 am.
...Nah, it's only 12:45 am. :D
In case y'all thought I was some kind of weirdo who BLOGs about paintball at 5 am.
...Nah, it's only 12:45 am. :D
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
I'm shithouse at paintball
What was I to expect, really? I don't believe I've ever operated a firearm before, let alone trying to get to grips with one while being pelted with enemy fire from more experienced opponents...
Quick thought; perhaps they should call it painball. Because those little pricks sting a bit when you get hit with them. I've got the bruises and a big lump on my leg soon to turn purple to prove it. Obviously bikini season is now out of the question for me.
Tragically, though I got hit with regularity, I can't actually say with any certainty whether I actually managed to shoot anyone else. I think I might have at one point, but I'm not entirely sure. I just couldn't figure out how everyone else was able to aim their guns so well while being shot at from every angle.
On the plus side however, I can say with pride that any of my he-man Rambo-like runs from place to place left me entirely unmarked. Yes, after the match's conclusion, I realised that I did not get hit once while on the move. ...I instead got hit about twenty times while trapped behind the places I thought to be safe, opponents creeping closer and closer before finally putting me out of my misery.
In case you're wondering, yes I was the first person to be hit. And yes, I was also the first one to cop one to the face; hit the third time right in the visor from Jorrel, obscuring my vision and reminding me that, had I not been wearing that helmet, I'd be down one eye at this moment in time. And yes, I was one of only three people to get hit right on the top of the head; an entirely unprotected area that did not appreciate the direct impact of paintball down upon it. I mightily declared 'FUCK' at the time... though in all honesty, I said that about 100 times today. Fifteen of those times right near the beginning, when I was first behind a metallic sheet and listening to the impact of paintballs on the other side.
Another quick thought, there's not really any other feeling out there quite like being trapped behind little cover, and hearing paintballs actually whiz by you like bullets, knowing that you're just about to get hit. The closest feeling I could relate it to would be having a soccer ball fly right past your head, also frightening in its own right, but in all respect, it's likely not being shot out of a rifle.
Unfortunately, it wasn't until the end that I started feeling a bit more ballsy, making desperate runs towards the central flag in the hopes of claiming victory, but I like to think that I was just adhering to my age-old tradition of being better in a supporting role towards others, giving Zula my last refill card so that he would have another 100 bullets, and swapping guns with Frances so that I was out there firing nothing but air while she ended up being the only one on our team left with ammo. Watching her run out bravely in the final charge, gun blazing... it was inspiring. It also made me glad that I had ditched those bullets. Lord knows I didn't want to be making that kamikaze run. She looked like a morbid rainbow after that dire attempt at heroics.
Would I do it again? Probably not. It was a lot of fun, but as you've probably gathered, I was pretty abysmal at it, and I much prefer to partake in activities where I'm not a liability to my team. ...I haven't quite concluded what those activities might be, but I assure you they almost certainly exist.
...Crap, I better take the cup I wore out of my backpack and wash it or something. Hell no I didn't throw it out, I paid good money for that thing and I intend to keep it on hand should I ever need it again. I'd much rather be the cup-bearer who's over-prepared rather than the poor cupless sap who ends up with blistered genitalia.
Was that last paragraph really necessary? Probably not. But I would have felt angry with myself if I omitted it.
Quick thought; perhaps they should call it painball. Because those little pricks sting a bit when you get hit with them. I've got the bruises and a big lump on my leg soon to turn purple to prove it. Obviously bikini season is now out of the question for me.
Tragically, though I got hit with regularity, I can't actually say with any certainty whether I actually managed to shoot anyone else. I think I might have at one point, but I'm not entirely sure. I just couldn't figure out how everyone else was able to aim their guns so well while being shot at from every angle.
On the plus side however, I can say with pride that any of my he-man Rambo-like runs from place to place left me entirely unmarked. Yes, after the match's conclusion, I realised that I did not get hit once while on the move. ...I instead got hit about twenty times while trapped behind the places I thought to be safe, opponents creeping closer and closer before finally putting me out of my misery.
In case you're wondering, yes I was the first person to be hit. And yes, I was also the first one to cop one to the face; hit the third time right in the visor from Jorrel, obscuring my vision and reminding me that, had I not been wearing that helmet, I'd be down one eye at this moment in time. And yes, I was one of only three people to get hit right on the top of the head; an entirely unprotected area that did not appreciate the direct impact of paintball down upon it. I mightily declared 'FUCK' at the time... though in all honesty, I said that about 100 times today. Fifteen of those times right near the beginning, when I was first behind a metallic sheet and listening to the impact of paintballs on the other side.
Another quick thought, there's not really any other feeling out there quite like being trapped behind little cover, and hearing paintballs actually whiz by you like bullets, knowing that you're just about to get hit. The closest feeling I could relate it to would be having a soccer ball fly right past your head, also frightening in its own right, but in all respect, it's likely not being shot out of a rifle.
Unfortunately, it wasn't until the end that I started feeling a bit more ballsy, making desperate runs towards the central flag in the hopes of claiming victory, but I like to think that I was just adhering to my age-old tradition of being better in a supporting role towards others, giving Zula my last refill card so that he would have another 100 bullets, and swapping guns with Frances so that I was out there firing nothing but air while she ended up being the only one on our team left with ammo. Watching her run out bravely in the final charge, gun blazing... it was inspiring. It also made me glad that I had ditched those bullets. Lord knows I didn't want to be making that kamikaze run. She looked like a morbid rainbow after that dire attempt at heroics.
Would I do it again? Probably not. It was a lot of fun, but as you've probably gathered, I was pretty abysmal at it, and I much prefer to partake in activities where I'm not a liability to my team. ...I haven't quite concluded what those activities might be, but I assure you they almost certainly exist.
...Crap, I better take the cup I wore out of my backpack and wash it or something. Hell no I didn't throw it out, I paid good money for that thing and I intend to keep it on hand should I ever need it again. I'd much rather be the cup-bearer who's over-prepared rather than the poor cupless sap who ends up with blistered genitalia.
Was that last paragraph really necessary? Probably not. But I would have felt angry with myself if I omitted it.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Blog number what... four?
You know what sucks?
My presence as a blogger for the last four years. I've cycled through so many blogs, garnered so many comments and provided so much insight - and here I am once again... Square one.
Blog entry #1.
No history.
No notoriety.
No viewcount.
Damnation.
So anyhow, welcome to post #1. Iffin you're from futureville and have noticed that I've in actual fact made a slew of entries preceding this one, then you can put that down to the handy little tool of backdating. I assure you that all the dates are in actual fact correct, and as for the people of today, I hope you don't mind being part of my retroactive updates. No doubt confusing as all get-out, but hey, I'm a stickler for historical accuracy, y'see?
My presence as a blogger for the last four years. I've cycled through so many blogs, garnered so many comments and provided so much insight - and here I am once again... Square one.
Blog entry #1.
No history.
No notoriety.
No viewcount.
Damnation.
So anyhow, welcome to post #1. Iffin you're from futureville and have noticed that I've in actual fact made a slew of entries preceding this one, then you can put that down to the handy little tool of backdating. I assure you that all the dates are in actual fact correct, and as for the people of today, I hope you don't mind being part of my retroactive updates. No doubt confusing as all get-out, but hey, I'm a stickler for historical accuracy, y'see?
Friday, January 9, 2009
How to light your kitchen on fire
My eyes still sting a little. My fingers are shaking, but not a whole lot. What's primarily on my mind at this time is imaginative ways to clean a bubbling ceiling.
So the low down, then. Being the creative culinary experts that we are, Jess and I decided tonight that we'd take a crack at making some crumbed calamari.
Things got off to an inauspicious start; our batter mix was overpriced for what was essentially just flour and crumbs, and it told us to just add water... not how much water or anything, but just add water. At one point in the night, I added water to something. The results were interesting.
First of all, let me heartily advise anyone against cooking at 11 at night. It sounds all fun and adventurous; late-night cookin' over a hot stove followed by some serious Baywatch and maybe even a little drunken session of Wii Fit (as long as nobody jumped on my balance board!)
Anyhow, with our crumbs all mixed with spices and some chips in the oven, all that was left was for the pot full of boiling oil to get ready. Various Youtube videos suggested 20 minutes (yes, we are learning to cook through Youtube). So I left Jess to her own devices while I chatted with Jana on the phone. What were we talking about at the time? Oh yeah, dad had had some luck on the recent lotto draw, and Jess was hoping Jana could get something for us on eBay. It was all innocuous enough, until Jess told me in a firm voice that she needed me.
Generally, such a tone of voice meant that there was a cockroach about, but somehow at the time, I kinda figured that it was more likely something to do with that pot full of volatile liquid. ...That pot full of volatile liquid, that now appeared to be on fire.
I (rather casually) told Jana that I had to go, and then watched with keen interest for a couple seconds, pondering how to solve this scenario. I reached out to grab the handle, but that flame was licking about under the lid fairly wildly, and as you can imagine as time went on things were only getting worse. I snatched it up (thank god the handle hadn't heated at all) and threw it in the sink.
At this time, I was a smidgen confused - why was it that when I threw it in the sink, the fire appeared to be getting bigger? Who cares, I knew how to solve this - through use of my neglected buddy Blastoise, I was aware that water could definitely quelch a fire.
So I turned the tap on, and it happened. WHOOSH. The whole sink is up in flames. By this point, there are certain things running through your mind. My second thought was, 'well shit, I'm not going to be able to put this out' - Jess' house may not survive the night. But, honest to god, my first thought was 'WHY DID WATER MAKE THE FIRE BIGGER?'
...I'm a much more scientifically aware human being now, having discovered that water aggravates the oil. I mean hey, water being poured all over me would piss me off too, but damn man, the fire had engulfed the entire sink, and was nearing the ceiling - get over it, oil!
I had concluded by this point that water wasn't working so great, and my mind was now turning to thoughts of evacuating (but not before saving my Wii!), when all of a sudden it was gone. This all progressed very quickly of course, but I am not exaggerating when I tell you that in another couple seconds, the whole kitchen is up in flames.
So our Blastoise-powered tap had put the fire out (after having a little bitchfight with the oil), and we were safe. Now Jess was up on a chair, plucking the battery from the smoke detector because the noise annoyed the hell out of her. With that out of the way, a few fans were turned on, doors and windows open, and yeah.
Considering that the whole house could have been burnt down and that in the split-second after I turned the tap on the flames hadn't taken my hand off, I'm pretty pleased with how the evening went. The state of the ceiling, however? Not so grand. The paint is bubbling, and there are some nasty-ass stains that I reckon will require professionals.
So yeah. That was our wee little cooking adventure. The upsetting part now? We have barely any oil left to make the damn calamari with. Ultimate fail.
Our gorgeous redecorating
Ain't she a beaut?
Love the bubbles
Partially melted rubbish bag
Best calamari ever!!
So the low down, then. Being the creative culinary experts that we are, Jess and I decided tonight that we'd take a crack at making some crumbed calamari.
Things got off to an inauspicious start; our batter mix was overpriced for what was essentially just flour and crumbs, and it told us to just add water... not how much water or anything, but just add water. At one point in the night, I added water to something. The results were interesting.
First of all, let me heartily advise anyone against cooking at 11 at night. It sounds all fun and adventurous; late-night cookin' over a hot stove followed by some serious Baywatch and maybe even a little drunken session of Wii Fit (as long as nobody jumped on my balance board!)
Anyhow, with our crumbs all mixed with spices and some chips in the oven, all that was left was for the pot full of boiling oil to get ready. Various Youtube videos suggested 20 minutes (yes, we are learning to cook through Youtube). So I left Jess to her own devices while I chatted with Jana on the phone. What were we talking about at the time? Oh yeah, dad had had some luck on the recent lotto draw, and Jess was hoping Jana could get something for us on eBay. It was all innocuous enough, until Jess told me in a firm voice that she needed me.
Generally, such a tone of voice meant that there was a cockroach about, but somehow at the time, I kinda figured that it was more likely something to do with that pot full of volatile liquid. ...That pot full of volatile liquid, that now appeared to be on fire.
I (rather casually) told Jana that I had to go, and then watched with keen interest for a couple seconds, pondering how to solve this scenario. I reached out to grab the handle, but that flame was licking about under the lid fairly wildly, and as you can imagine as time went on things were only getting worse. I snatched it up (thank god the handle hadn't heated at all) and threw it in the sink.
At this time, I was a smidgen confused - why was it that when I threw it in the sink, the fire appeared to be getting bigger? Who cares, I knew how to solve this - through use of my neglected buddy Blastoise, I was aware that water could definitely quelch a fire.
So I turned the tap on, and it happened. WHOOSH. The whole sink is up in flames. By this point, there are certain things running through your mind. My second thought was, 'well shit, I'm not going to be able to put this out' - Jess' house may not survive the night. But, honest to god, my first thought was 'WHY DID WATER MAKE THE FIRE BIGGER?'
...I'm a much more scientifically aware human being now, having discovered that water aggravates the oil. I mean hey, water being poured all over me would piss me off too, but damn man, the fire had engulfed the entire sink, and was nearing the ceiling - get over it, oil!
I had concluded by this point that water wasn't working so great, and my mind was now turning to thoughts of evacuating (but not before saving my Wii!), when all of a sudden it was gone. This all progressed very quickly of course, but I am not exaggerating when I tell you that in another couple seconds, the whole kitchen is up in flames.
So our Blastoise-powered tap had put the fire out (after having a little bitchfight with the oil), and we were safe. Now Jess was up on a chair, plucking the battery from the smoke detector because the noise annoyed the hell out of her. With that out of the way, a few fans were turned on, doors and windows open, and yeah.
Considering that the whole house could have been burnt down and that in the split-second after I turned the tap on the flames hadn't taken my hand off, I'm pretty pleased with how the evening went. The state of the ceiling, however? Not so grand. The paint is bubbling, and there are some nasty-ass stains that I reckon will require professionals.
So yeah. That was our wee little cooking adventure. The upsetting part now? We have barely any oil left to make the damn calamari with. Ultimate fail.
Our gorgeous redecorating
Ain't she a beaut?
Love the bubbles
Partially melted rubbish bag
Best calamari ever!!
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