http://search.deviantart.com/?q=by:thoughtcontrolled&section=today deviantART RSS for by:thoughtcontrolled en-us Copyright 2009, deviantART.com Wed, 02 Dec 2009 19:55:36 PST deviantART.com http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss http://s.deviantart.com/minish/widgets/apple-touch-icon-precomposed.png http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/7663566/ http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/7663566/ Sat, 21 Jan 2006 04:40:39 PST ~thoughtcontrolled http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/6425639/ http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/6425639/ Mon, 05 Sep 2005 18:10:21 PDT
A friend of mine had a band that was several square kilometres in size, the only place he could book them to play was national parks. Which was not helpful, as due to environmental concerns he was not allowed to play there anyway. After considerable downsizing, the band was pared back to a mere 2700 members, many of whom were percussion. Of course, there ws only one drum kit, which was destroyed at the first (and only) set they played at.

So my friend did what he had to for the good of the band and shot himself in the jaw with a 30.06 hunting rifle. After a little counselling he was able to continue living a normal life as the manager of a punk band, The Gangsters, whose biography is on its way. ]]> ~thoughtcontrolled http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/5199090/ http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/5199090/ Tue, 26 Apr 2005 21:26:08 PDT I remember the first time I was in Bangkok...or I would, if I had ever been there. The closest I have been to the musky jungles of Asia is probably Brisbane. I can see it now- the rickshaws flowing down the road, on their way to Southbank for another fat opium dealer, the squawking of chickens and ducks in their bamboo cages in Queens Street mall. The sandbag barricades out the front of the town hall, manned by shifty looking mercenaries and rag-tag conscripts.
I wandered into a shop where a rat faced lady shouted at me in Cantonese to "buy or get out!" So I did exactly that- I bought a small statue in the hope that it was in some way a mystical artifact that had somehow been misplaced and ended up here for me to find.
I had low hopes of that originated- for one thing, the statue was of a caricaturised Irish man with a putter. There was also a sticker on the bottom saying "Made in Taiwan".
I suppose the fact that it came from Taiwan made it exotic.
I'll never forget the heady scents of that mysterious city. Brisbane is surely a place of wonder. ]]> ~thoughtcontrolled http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/5080762/ http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/5080762/ Wed, 13 Apr 2005 17:52:55 PDT
No one seems to appreciate good comedy lately. I like to think it is because people here are selfish prats who refuse to idolise and worship my devine self, but on a more realistic level it might be because I do not write good comedy.
Or maybe my lack of page views could be atributed to the I've been here little over a month, and my completely arbitrary and unfounded hatred of emoticons.
It takes me back to the time when I was performing some of Billy Conelly's stand up comedy for some friends. I had, of course, smeared my body with a mixture of faeces and blood (as the great man himself was want to do) and was running around the back yard screaming "Billy Conelly" at the top of my lungs.
My flatmates, neighbours and the police were unimpressed, and I was sedated for a number of days after the event.
Once again, art goes unappreciated. ]]> ~thoughtcontrolled http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/4992545/ http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/4992545/ Sun, 03 Apr 2005 21:33:45 PDT So I did my best to mingle with the guests, cracking a joke here, fending for my life there, my martini in hand and a false smirk on my face.
"Hi, my name's Dan." I would say.
"Mrrrrmammrgghhhh." Was the usualy reply. How droll. Oh the witticism. I cornered a girl on one of Voodoo Jim's many loveseats and attempted to force her into some sort of meaningful conversation.
"Come on, why live up to people's expectations?" I asked. "Why conform to the stereotype?"
"Grraaargggggmmmmhnnn." She replied.
"Can't you see that's what they want you to think?" I said, incensed.
"Yes, but being a zombie and having little motor skills rather limits the depths of any possible conversation you might engage me in." She said.
"What?"
"Mmmmmhhhnnhh."
After that she tried to eat my face, but I rather blandly extricated myself on the pretense of needing another drink. I don't think she even noticed that my drink was half-full.
It was at that point in the night that I shrugged off the loathsome duty Voodoo Jim had heaped upon me and stood instead on the verandah, to look out over the town. Voodoo Jim staggered out, a vodka bottle in his hand and a lampshade on his head.
"How bout this party, eh?" He brayed, prodding me with his elbow. I grunted noncommitally. Voodoo Jim took a swig of the vodka, burped, and fell into the garden. At that point the zombies inside all simultaenously collapsed. I breathed a sigh of relief and went to get my jacket.
I really hate Voodoo Jim. ]]> ~thoughtcontrolled http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/4914629/ http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/4914629/ Sat, 26 Mar 2005 02:27:24 PST
PROJECT THE FIRST

The Apartment-
A deeper exploration of apathy and self-destruction in the face of overwhelming success. Steve is an investment banker. Lincoln is a published author. Both want failure, and so end up in zany adventures revolving around an abandoned tenement building.

PROJECT THE SECOND

Guerilla Fuckit-
An experienced asshole decides that toying with the lives of his friends is no longer as entertaining as it once was, and so sets about systematically destroying the beliefs of as many people he can, any way he can.
Partly an auto-biography.

PROJECT THE THIRD

The Bond-
A young child is subjected to repeated abuse by his father, until he meets Estradamus, an incredibly influential man in the City. It is from Estradamus that the young man learns of the secret world- a world within the walls of ours. However it comes at the price of his innocence.

Let me know what you think- I would prefer to concentrate my efforts on one rather than all three. Of course I have numerous other sideline projects I am working on, including some comedy scripts for television. ]]> ~thoughtcontrolled http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/4868485/ http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/4868485/ Mon, 21 Mar 2005 02:07:42 PST
1. Reshave my mohawk.

I had a mohawk for a while, and it was the most despicable thing ever on my head. I loved it.

2. Fill my ugly face with metal

I plan to get a bunch of piercings- one through the bridge of my nose, one through the centre of my nose (like a bull ring) and maybed one through my lower lip, where the "soul patch" usually sits.

Expect some photos soonish, whenever I can afford this spiral of self destruction I have decided to embark on. ]]> ~thoughtcontrolled http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/4790862/ http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/4790862/ Sat, 12 Mar 2005 01:58:13 PST Current objective: The Rhine

I have ten men in my meagre command, all them battle scarred, veterans of their art, and completely bat-shit crazy.
I lift my weary head as van Groot, my 2OC approaches.
"Sarge...the Germans..." With a trembling hand he points across the river. I follow his direction. With a plummeting stomach I watch as the hordes of Deutschelander's approach.
"Shit."
It has been a hard slog for the 19th Airborne Artist division. Armed only with palettes and sketch pads, we made the drop into Normandy and so far avoided major calamity largely by hiding. Of course, casualties were unavoidable.
Atkins, our teams poet, was gunned down in a blaze of glory as he rushed an enemy machinegun post with naught but the works of Tennyson in hand. I think he planned to throw it at them.
Pollocks, our Captain, was shot repeatedly as he attempted to buy the rest of the squad more time with his improv theatre. And Smith. Lovable Smith, our post-impressionist. Died of gangrene from some grenade shrapnel.
There were few of us left, and supplies were wearing thin. Already, all our paint thinner was gone- dried out or used up in the field of war. Johnson had attempted to adapt using Russian tank coolant, but the outcome was a muddy mess that was henceforth described as a "work in progress".
And now the German tanks rolled ponderously through the shattered remnants of an outpost, reclaiming what was theirs to begin with.
"Ok men," I said through gritted teeth, "get whatever paper you can." There was a mad scramble as the men drew out sketch pads (the few that were left) and old diaries and scraps of paper scrounged during our foray through France. Men bravely fixed charcoal or ink brushes, preparing for the German assault.
Van Groot was the first to go down, catching a bullet as he bravely held a thumb up to determine perspective. Klipspringer jumped to his aid, trying to keep the blood off the paper, but to no avail. Klipspringer and Horshfeld went down almost simultaenously.
Bravely our playwright, Lloyd, attempted to scribble down a soliloquoy as bullets made an unwholesome tattoo around the window in which he crouched.
Suddenly artillery thundered behind us, and what remained of my squad watched dumbfounded as tank bloomed into light, German troops thrown about like sock puppets. The Americans had finally moved into position behind us, dropping shells into what was the last of the German Army. The Nazi stranglehold on Europe had been broken long ago, and now even the fingernails were being drawn out.
"Oh shit." Harolds said, crouching low in a rubble filled ditch. "I hadn't finished yet."
Oh the wastes of war. ]]> ~thoughtcontrolled http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/4765120/ http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/4765120/ Tue, 08 Mar 2005 23:07:47 PST
SO perhaps the public wants to know exactly what is working it's way through my bilious mental digestive system. I have made a small running log-

1. Oh god I drank too much wine.
2. I need a bucket.
3. I need a cigarette.

Ok so maybe not in that order, but you get the idea. Writing while drunk is the only way to go.

I'd like to express some thanks for making my site as apallingly sucessful as it has so far been-

First to [link] for his input, and being the first in and best dressed.

Second to [link] a friend of mine (who I know personally) for his pscyhotism and for introducing me to this site.

Third is to everyone else and the community at large, exluding the whores chat group, who seemed snobby and cliquish. Everyone else has been generous and forgiving- generous in advice and encouragement, forgiving in putting up with my atrocious wordplay. ]]> ~thoughtcontrolled http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/4757329/ http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/4757329/ Tue, 08 Mar 2005 04:16:02 PST However, not wanting various stains on the carpet to be my only legacy, I have, in the vain of Marco Polo, Captain James Cook and Indiana Jones, decided to write of my travels.

***

It was September, 1911. I was half frozen and living in a tiny igloo on the outskirts of Cairo, my only consolation the ernomous bull walrus who seemed to have taken me under his dubious wing. His name was Frederico, and was a living legend in the slum towns of that frigid wasteland.

"Boyd," he said to me (not realising that my name was actually Dan), "you gotta be more positive. I know a great voodoo doctor who can give you a lift if you know what I mean."
And with a jocular wink and nudge he exited my abode, chuckling. He came back about ten minutes later when he realised he hadn't yet given me the witch doctors address. He left slightly embarassed.
I stared at the magnificently appointed business card with it's gold trimmings and ermine cloak. Hastily I stripped back the cloak and squinted at the address.

"115 Egyptian-name-sounding street
Cairo
Egypt"

Setting my shoulders and keeping a stiff upper lip I prepared to do what any red-blooded Australian would do when faced with a challenged- I got very drunk and passed out in my own vomit. The next morning, much refreshed, I pushed the snow from the front of my igloo with the corpse of a penguin and wrapped myself in seaweed and old candle wax to ward off the biting wind.
And thus I set off to the witch doctors office.

TO BE CONTINUED!!!!! ]]> ~thoughtcontrolled http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/4756602/ http://thoughtcontrolled.deviantart.com/journal/4756602/ Tue, 08 Mar 2005 00:18:51 PST
This is my first step towards my dreams of stardom, and ultimately notoriety on this broad fecal pit of human refuse that inevitably collects at what has to be our species lowest point.

*THE INTERNET*

Awe inspiring, towering and phallic, this mighty monolith to the pointless and inane is surely the means to an end for my success. I plan to ride this pony until it drops, and when it does drop (and it will) I plan to steal someone elses pony, rinse and repeat.

I stopped making sense years ago. ]]> ~thoughtcontrolled