Showing posts with label paris hilton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label paris hilton. Show all posts
Monday, May 14, 2012
Victim mentality
As some of you may know my hotel room was burgled the other day. I don't want to dwell on the negatives though, where is the fun in that? So instead here is a list of the awesomely great things about being robbed:
- My stolen laptop had around 17 unpublished books I've written which will now be exposed to a potential new fan.
- Travel insurance will, I hope, pay for a new one which, I hope, won't be anywhere near as slow as my old one, which is the same thing I regretted hoping last time I got a new laptop.
- That was three uses of hope in one sentence and according to ‘Shawshank Redemption’ 'hope is the best of things'
- The people who did it may OD on the crack they buy with the cash they stole! I hope.
- That’s mean Tim Robbins.
- I've officially been screwed by a 'Hilton' if people want to assume 'Paris' they can.
- The cops accused me of having hookers in my room who then decided to target me - yep, that's right, Toronto cops think I've gotten laid recently!
- My camera stored old photos of my heavily bruised butt - yep I'll soon be an Internet star!
- It was probably an inside job by Hilton employees, so they're going to give me some shit, um, right? Maybe a photo of Paris Hilton’s bruised butt?
- The cops were disgraceful - finally confirming a theory I have - 'some cops are disgraceful'
- I also have a theory that careers always take off immediately after being the victim of a crime - hell yeah!
- Sympathy hugs.
- Any crazy tweets and Facebook updates I do this week can be blamed on another person.
- My new hotel includes breakfast - bacon!
- Um lots and lots of sympathy hugs, I hope.
Wow, don’t you just wish you were robbed this week? If you say no it’s a sign that you are secretly planning on robbing Tim Robbins.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Things not to text to strangers
Here is something that you should never text message to a stranger
I want to rip your clothes off
and pull you into me from behind
fucking you in the ass
deeper and harder
hearing you scream
as you think of the Tasmanian logging industry
my vodka infused natural lubricant
will overcome every doubt
in your moistest of brain juices
like the aggregate of every bull
and every Paris Hilton wanna be
like an orgy in a vat of duck fat
You'll be dripping with sweat
like a Persian monkey on steroids
and I want to catch every drop
in a bed pan
and watch you sponge bath yourself with it
like a menopausal old woman in a nursing home
You don't know me
but we already share the same STDs
And now a poem by Dave
The beginning of time
The end of innocence
The beginning of pressure
The end of presence
And the little girl is told to hurry
Up and not be a child anymore
So someone like me can take advantage of her
And just moments later
Just snippets of time
And she is too old already
And its moved onto after
And I feel it too
I really do
Cause its too late for me to
Choke in a bathtub
Or to put a shotgun in my mouth
In a wilderness shack
I’m already beyond that
And I haven’t even begun
But I still want to make
A red stain on a fresh white sheet
And I still want to force the overwhelmed
Into a crumpled heap
And my hands and my eyes
Threaten to expose my desperate disguise
I’m empty inside
The beginning of everything
The end of the wrong path
The beginning of gold walls
The end of the relaxed past
I feel it too
But I need to
I want to rip your clothes off
and pull you into me from behind
fucking you in the ass
deeper and harder
hearing you scream
as you think of the Tasmanian logging industry
my vodka infused natural lubricant
will overcome every doubt
in your moistest of brain juices
like the aggregate of every bull
and every Paris Hilton wanna be
like an orgy in a vat of duck fat
You'll be dripping with sweat
like a Persian monkey on steroids
and I want to catch every drop
in a bed pan
and watch you sponge bath yourself with it
like a menopausal old woman in a nursing home
You don't know me
but we already share the same STDs
And now a poem by Dave
The beginning of time
The end of innocence
The beginning of pressure
The end of presence
And the little girl is told to hurry
Up and not be a child anymore
So someone like me can take advantage of her
And just moments later
Just snippets of time
And she is too old already
And its moved onto after
And I feel it too
I really do
Cause its too late for me to
Choke in a bathtub
Or to put a shotgun in my mouth
In a wilderness shack
I’m already beyond that
And I haven’t even begun
But I still want to make
A red stain on a fresh white sheet
And I still want to force the overwhelmed
Into a crumpled heap
And my hands and my eyes
Threaten to expose my desperate disguise
I’m empty inside
The beginning of everything
The end of the wrong path
The beginning of gold walls
The end of the relaxed past
I feel it too
But I need to
Thursday, July 21, 2011
David Tieck…… ACT…tor
The last time I was in a play was about 25 years ago. I played a Native Hawaiian who was part of a posse who speared Captain Cook to death (this was my second on stage murder in my second play, having been in charge of dumping a house on the Wicked Witch in my first play, I never did grow out of my murderous typecasting).
This was really fun because the kid playing Cook was an old friend who was a temporary enemy, and I liked the idea of stabbing him to death at this time. Also I think I was jealous of him getting the lead even though I would have stabbed myself before saying a single line on a stage.
Then again it was also horrible because for some reason playing a Native Hawaiian meant the make-up lady put me in black face with bright cherry red lipstick (I believe it was her revenge for years of mental abuse by the supermarket chocolate isle) and I had to go on stage like that, and then no one showed me how to get it off, so I spent the best part of twenty-four hours like that, and it was epically humiliating.
Fun fact that ex friend became a friend friend again and then the first time I ever heard Smells Like Teen Spirit was in his little brothers room, and that little brother is now a hugely famous electro pop musician, I hated him then (annoying) and now (jealousy), and because of him it took me a many years to appreciate Nirvana. Also because Axl Rose told me via interviews not to like them, and if Axl Rose tells you to do something you do it damn it.
Recently I've been thinking about trying to perform in a play in a positive way. Like enjoying it, and having lines, and not taking out immature vendettas (actually I believe from memory the catalyst for the ex friend period was someone who wasn't a friend daring me that I couldn't de-friend him as a friend, holy lord pathetic, at least I am pretty sure that is the only time I have ever been influenced by another person).
So I started putting some feelers out for audition opportunities, and last night I was invited to a play reading.
What occurs at a play reading? I hear you ask. I thought it was a place to hear the play read by a series of prepared actors, when alas it was actually a place where several things happens:
1. Potential auditioners such as myself get to read random parts of the play at various time.
2. Actors show off how Acterly they can be despite being told not to be acterly.
3. Actors with dyslexia try to come up with as many jokes as possible to self deprecate their inability to read.
4. Numerous actors try to show off how good they are at doing Upper Class British accents even if their character is described as being from Austria or France.
5. Actors such as myself decree that one should only adopt said posh accent if one is directed to by either text or director, and when the time cameth upon my good self to read a character, I decided to conduct my business in my normal Australian accent still tinged with whisks of Americana, yet when I discovered myself endowed with a character an accent arbitrarily came out of my mouth akin to what I would do when mocking the British royal family, or reading something utterly disgusting to humor my friends.
“And then, my lord, she shat her last nights fine dining experience over my face, lathering it in the same manner I lather your fine silver with polish, before shining it to a mirror, so you can watcheth yourself fist a goat in the rectum” Jane Austin.
Speaking of shining silver, Paris Hilton stormed out of an interview today when the host suggested she may no longer be relevant, I was equally outraged, how dare someone suggest she was ever relevant (awesome boobs though).
The play that we read was “An ideal husband” by Oscar Wilde. I shamelessly do not know that much about good ol’ Oscar, other than that I believe he was a hugely admired, and extremely promiscuous homosexual who died of alcoholism in Paris in the early part of the twentieth century, and was keen on the phrases “she’ll be right” and “ya know what I’m sayin’”. Also I have personally kissed his grave, something I like to do with all playwrights before exploring their work.
This particular play, while extremely witty at times, was full of not too interesting characters (at least when cold-read by a variety of unprepared rotating actors) and the story is way, way, way, way too long and repetitive, and probably far less interesting than any random page of Mr Wilde’s hypothetical personal journal (Example: Today I had lots of promiscuous sex. My partner, a beautiful young man, asked if we should lock the door, and I said to him “she’ll be right” but then just as we were getting deep into it, so to speak, a woman burst into the room yelling “what’s going on here” and I was forced to reply “just banging your husband, know what I’m sayin’”).
In the end I decided to leave early and not audition, mostly because even though this was amateur theatre, it still requires the best part of six months of three times weekly rehearsals, and even small parts in the play require learning a minimum of seven million words (rumors had it that the catalyst for Wilde’s death was an actor in a minor role skipping three words in one performance and as a result only saying 6,999,998 words in one performance, creating a depression that caused Oscar to drink himself to death).
I have too much respect (laziness) for my potential director to risk that. Plus the theatre holds only about 22 people, and there aren’t that many performances of the play, which by my calculation means the actors will each rehearse 217 hours for each individual that will see the play, just overstepping my personal 213 hour per viewer standard. And if we don’t have personal standards why even enter the theatre?
In the end I went and gorged on KFC, then went home, had some beers, watched some TV, and polished the hell out of my fine silver, you never know when the next fun times are on their way. Wait, did you, you? Ewww, I don’t have a goat here, Axl Rose just told me “Welcome to the jungle” and I assume that’s his way of saying “your place really is a pigsty, better have a tidy up”.
This was really fun because the kid playing Cook was an old friend who was a temporary enemy, and I liked the idea of stabbing him to death at this time. Also I think I was jealous of him getting the lead even though I would have stabbed myself before saying a single line on a stage.
Then again it was also horrible because for some reason playing a Native Hawaiian meant the make-up lady put me in black face with bright cherry red lipstick (I believe it was her revenge for years of mental abuse by the supermarket chocolate isle) and I had to go on stage like that, and then no one showed me how to get it off, so I spent the best part of twenty-four hours like that, and it was epically humiliating.
Fun fact that ex friend became a friend friend again and then the first time I ever heard Smells Like Teen Spirit was in his little brothers room, and that little brother is now a hugely famous electro pop musician, I hated him then (annoying) and now (jealousy), and because of him it took me a many years to appreciate Nirvana. Also because Axl Rose told me via interviews not to like them, and if Axl Rose tells you to do something you do it damn it.
Recently I've been thinking about trying to perform in a play in a positive way. Like enjoying it, and having lines, and not taking out immature vendettas (actually I believe from memory the catalyst for the ex friend period was someone who wasn't a friend daring me that I couldn't de-friend him as a friend, holy lord pathetic, at least I am pretty sure that is the only time I have ever been influenced by another person).
So I started putting some feelers out for audition opportunities, and last night I was invited to a play reading.
What occurs at a play reading? I hear you ask. I thought it was a place to hear the play read by a series of prepared actors, when alas it was actually a place where several things happens:
1. Potential auditioners such as myself get to read random parts of the play at various time.
2. Actors show off how Acterly they can be despite being told not to be acterly.
3. Actors with dyslexia try to come up with as many jokes as possible to self deprecate their inability to read.
4. Numerous actors try to show off how good they are at doing Upper Class British accents even if their character is described as being from Austria or France.
5. Actors such as myself decree that one should only adopt said posh accent if one is directed to by either text or director, and when the time cameth upon my good self to read a character, I decided to conduct my business in my normal Australian accent still tinged with whisks of Americana, yet when I discovered myself endowed with a character an accent arbitrarily came out of my mouth akin to what I would do when mocking the British royal family, or reading something utterly disgusting to humor my friends.
“And then, my lord, she shat her last nights fine dining experience over my face, lathering it in the same manner I lather your fine silver with polish, before shining it to a mirror, so you can watcheth yourself fist a goat in the rectum” Jane Austin.
Speaking of shining silver, Paris Hilton stormed out of an interview today when the host suggested she may no longer be relevant, I was equally outraged, how dare someone suggest she was ever relevant (awesome boobs though).
The play that we read was “An ideal husband” by Oscar Wilde. I shamelessly do not know that much about good ol’ Oscar, other than that I believe he was a hugely admired, and extremely promiscuous homosexual who died of alcoholism in Paris in the early part of the twentieth century, and was keen on the phrases “she’ll be right” and “ya know what I’m sayin’”. Also I have personally kissed his grave, something I like to do with all playwrights before exploring their work.
This particular play, while extremely witty at times, was full of not too interesting characters (at least when cold-read by a variety of unprepared rotating actors) and the story is way, way, way, way too long and repetitive, and probably far less interesting than any random page of Mr Wilde’s hypothetical personal journal (Example: Today I had lots of promiscuous sex. My partner, a beautiful young man, asked if we should lock the door, and I said to him “she’ll be right” but then just as we were getting deep into it, so to speak, a woman burst into the room yelling “what’s going on here” and I was forced to reply “just banging your husband, know what I’m sayin’”).
In the end I decided to leave early and not audition, mostly because even though this was amateur theatre, it still requires the best part of six months of three times weekly rehearsals, and even small parts in the play require learning a minimum of seven million words (rumors had it that the catalyst for Wilde’s death was an actor in a minor role skipping three words in one performance and as a result only saying 6,999,998 words in one performance, creating a depression that caused Oscar to drink himself to death).
I have too much respect (laziness) for my potential director to risk that. Plus the theatre holds only about 22 people, and there aren’t that many performances of the play, which by my calculation means the actors will each rehearse 217 hours for each individual that will see the play, just overstepping my personal 213 hour per viewer standard. And if we don’t have personal standards why even enter the theatre?
In the end I went and gorged on KFC, then went home, had some beers, watched some TV, and polished the hell out of my fine silver, you never know when the next fun times are on their way. Wait, did you, you? Ewww, I don’t have a goat here, Axl Rose just told me “Welcome to the jungle” and I assume that’s his way of saying “your place really is a pigsty, better have a tidy up”.
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