There are no cats in America...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Titans, turtles and.... tumultuous?

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

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

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

GAME OVER

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

Honestly, where would we be without Bowser?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Doncha just love trick questions?

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

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

Conformity vs. Chaos

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

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

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

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

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

1051 reasons to BLOG

Who's Your Perfect Lover?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Groggily lashing out at life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.