1051 reasons to BLOG

Who's Your Perfect Lover?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Groggily lashing out at life

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come see Cosi. NOW.

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

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

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

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

Randumb

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

McTrouble

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vic Uni: a precursor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blam, Shamrock, BLAM!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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