Aptitude

I was supposed to be playing cricket today. But then the rain came down and the field was altogether far to dangerous for anyone to walk over, let alone dive, run and generally act like a demented mole. Part of me is relieved. We were to play at Nunwick park. This is probably the most dangerous park in the Southern Hemisphere as two rugby players last season got skin injuries which turned out to be the flesh eating disease! Christchurch being Christchurch, no-one really gave a damn and it is still a pretty dodgy ground

Instead I've been trying to re-enroll for my thesis. Unfortunately they don't have a code for the continuing thesis student (I don't even know if that is required). Being the intelligent sort that I am, I deciding to ring their 'enquiries' number. I was asked by an electronic voice to enter my mail box pin. I don't know what that means, so I'll just sit here quietly for a while scratching my head and rocking backwards and forwards.

The sea is me.

I am now completely a bundle of nerves. Rather frustrating really. It means that I have an adequate excuse not to do work (I nearly bolted to shop for a guitar at the Rockshop several minutes ago). I don't need reasons not to do work, so I'll use this idiosyncratic blog to existentialize my frustrations, dispose of them (for publication on the net) and then move on to doing work.

Basically it boils down to the age old fear that the girl does not like me, or that I'm going to scare her off. There are two main grounds for these (hopefully) baseless allegations. Firstly, I'm worried that my student loan will scare her off. This is probably ridiculous as I don't think she is particularly shallow. This fear probably reflects my guilt over accumulating a large loan and not having done enough to control it. I am still young, however, and there are a number of means of paying it off (kidney anyone?).

Secondly, I'm worried that my people know her people and the odd joke may be represented as being actual fact. For the record, I am not stalking Mysterious Girl. I merely enjoy running into her and hope that we could do it on a more regular basis. But I know how idle talking can be misconstrued.

Thirdly, I'm just worried that I've misinterpreted everything and it is all going to end horribly. This fear plays on the basic insecurity inherent within the 'I like this girl' scenario. The worry is also that she will not be attracted to me. Of course, this fear will never fully resolve itself unless I ask her out (which I intend to do). I will then learn either if she does or if she does not.

I went to Sumner last night. The sea is very comforting. I've grown up around it and I find that it can reassure me in ways that I cannot, and occasionally in ways that those around me cannot. I'm at home around the sea. It is good and made me feel better. I can only really compare it to writing thoughts out. Once written they seem absurd (except, perhaps the attraction fear) and I feel almost embarrassed that I worried about some of them. But it is part of who I am and what I do.

Dave would not be Dave without overthought.

Hayley

Is terrifyingly good at stalking people and is threatening to send Mysterious Girl an email. She has even found out her last name.

While I know her heart is in the right place and I would count her as one of my best mates, she sure knows how to strike terror into the cockels of my soul.

Maybe I'm being unreasonably old fashioned. But I do think personal information should be given and not peeped.

Mad World.

Give me money

I've just finished my application to be a tutor for the History department this year. I understand my chances are rather slim. Something about me being a devilishly handsome dude who would charm the women (and inadvertently half the blokes). I applied anyway because the thought of being the centre of attention is rather intoxicating. And I get paid. But the chance of me getting it is, as I said, rather slim. I'm a student and they would rather give it to people with no association with the department.

So I added a literary device to the end of my letter. It's called blackmail.

I couched it in rather academic terms. To put it in laymans terms (or as I like to call it 'Claire' language), I said something along the lines of "You need me to be a Ph.D. candidate because no-one else is going to and I'm not going to do it unless you give me money through tutoring".

I doubt it will work. But it felt good. So I'm going to use 'blackmail' more often. I think it will help me advance in these times of dark and dank corporate greed and irresponsibility. I could make my millions threatening to show the world pictures of Paul Homes naked (hook a brother up, Pete). Then use my ill-gotten gains to buy my way out of a jail term (I could be a whistle blower. Sorry, Pete) and then launder my money and laundry in the Caribbean with lots of gorgeous groupies. Oh yes, the some I shall get.

Unfortunately my daydream is being interrupted by the constant pounding in the History corridors. Big hairy bald men are stealing our wallets, CD's and women while at the same time demolishing and restructuring our floor.

This looks like a job for The Blackmailer.

I came to uni to study

But instead ended up in front of the computer trying to pick my jaw off the floor after reading that Claire had been harassing my cooking before she'd even seen it. I'd understand Mike going online to proclaim my hackneyed culinary ability. At least he's tried it. And I will admit that my sauce could have been a little thicker, but frankly, not everything in our flat is not going to be like Claire.

I'm trying to establish a somewhat sophisticated reputation here. While I realise that goal is largely defunct after the posting of my first blog and my refusal to edit anything after typing it (a faint, cursory glance to the ideal of actually working on my thesis), random and uncalled for insults are hardly going to help me impress anyone. Well, I'm kidding on most counts but my cooking? Mamma bella mia!?! Everyone knows that the key to a nice, romantic homemade meal is the homemade meal. The trick is to get the girl (guess who) to the meal. Then I can wow them with my sophisticated charm and humour (I can be subtle, Ben). The tomato sauce, peanut satay sauce or my delicate white sauce on the exquisite blue cod I bought from Captain Ben's is a foolsafe plan to trick her into thinking that I am actually a lovely charming bloke. (I'm assuming that utter bastards traditionally have a reputation of not being able to cook. I may have invented that theory 10 minutes ago, but I'm sticking with it).

I'm so transparent!

So yes, Claire has a blog. I have to admit I'm at least partly responsible, walking her through the difficult stages such as 'this is where you type your name'. I shouldn't be too hard on her, however. I'm always a fan of anyone who puts me in the same links area as the World Bank. I am that important, although I haven't screwed that many people.

I'm trying, damnit.

On my existence.

We are gather here today, dear friends, to once again beat the *$&# out of that *^$#@$ organisation known as Studylink/WINZ/Evil corporate state machine from hell. I was checking my balance online to ensure that I could pay a Visa bill when I noticed a distinct lack of income. It seems that Studylink has deemed that I do not exist. Understandably confused and mildly alarmed by the potential catastrophic consequences of my failure to exist (how could I get any?) I rang the bastards in an attempt to clarify my existence. They were rather surprised to discover that I did exist. This was no great surprise. I remember a few years ago when they were surprised that I did not have a small 50 year old Chinese wife. Hmmm. After a few frantic minutes on hold listening to Dragon and Dave Dobbyn I resolved a problematic philosophical problem.

I think, therefore I am.

More importantly, the fact that my existence was denied by the evil monolith that is Studylink implies that there is no God. A good God would not have allowed Steve Maharey or Trevor Mallard to come within a very long ladder of Studylink or my existence. God cannot therefore exist, or is a cynical old man reminiscent of Rob Muldoon.

To recap: I think, therefore I am. Studylink exists therefore God does not.

Take that, Descartes.

In a surprising move, however, the issue was resolved over the phone and I am pleased to announce that I do exist again. Phew. $450 in back loan is coming my way. Woo yeah baby. I want to cry.

And it looks like Kerry is going to win. I'm rooting for Edwards. It is a sad state of affairs when Nic and I both think Edwards should win because he's prettier and therefore more likely to win.

Begone.

Where I talk about absolutely nothing at all

All these out of season events are starting to confuse me. Traditionally I'm easily confused and some use me as a barometer of trouble ahead. I'm the canary down a deep and dank hole, and while I mean that in the metaphorical sense of the word (it would be ridiculous to describe me literally as a canary) the dark clouds gathering overhead are at least as ominous and a large and deep hole. Not that I want to give the impression that I've been down many holes. I've dug a few - metaphoric again - but never any with a spade. Unless I'm planting something. Or burying Robert the Demented flatmate. We won't be hearing from him anytime soon.

Well, yes we will. He doesn't want to move. I know I've talked about this before and Robert is quickly becoming a bit of an institution between all of us. But I want out of that freaky little thing he calls a life. And yes, I am being an intolerable not-so-little prat. But I don't care anymore. He agreed to go (and was happy to go) when Claire talked to him before he went up to the hippy Christian music festival (I thought he was going with a group of mates but he went by himself and spent most of the time there by himself - I feel quite sad about that actually. He's definitely braver than me. That's not why I'm sad, however). But now he's back and is complaining about having to move out (he claimed Claire had told him he had to freaking months!!). Grr. I think it's time we called in the big fella and get Tim to clear him out.

Claire is going to start up a new (rival) blog. I'm a little worried about this because I like my targets to be soft and unable to hit back. Soon she will have the technology and I will have to be nice to her. That's not one of my strong suits. So now I'm looking for another target. Charlie springs to mind, but I'm afraid I'll crush him like the (tall) puny white guy that he is. I'm not even considering picking Hayley because she'll crush me alive like and itty bitty fly in a Venus fly trap. Nic and Tim both have blogs and could wage a cunning war of attrition. Corey has his friends power poll and might one day actually do something about it. Ben has a blog in theory which means he might one day actually write something in it (you heard me right, red leader). Fi could so kick my ass and is probably looking for a reason to do so, so I'm not going to give her that reason. Sarah doesn't have a blog but a proper website and I'm sure she can get some legally ambiguous photos of me on her website (she said she was 16!). You can see my problem.

But the blog should definitely start getting interesting. Yvette and Michelle move in on the 6th(!?!) and we've told Robert he can have until the 18th.

I've forgotten the out of season events that are confusing me. Except the weather. There is an odd comfort in that.

Mixed Angst

Good news - ran into mysterious girl and chatted to her for a while. We get on well and I don't think I act as badly as what would usually be expected of me with an attractive member of the opposite sex. She's going to do honours next year in law and maybe pols. But she wants to stick around for a while. Fine by me.

And I know her name. Not telling because I don't trust you. Not all of you, anyway.

Bad news. This seriously detracts from the above. A top mate is in a critical condition in hospital with some whacked and nasty form of pneumonia. Things were pretty rough for a while but I think everything will turn out all right. Send all good karma this way and I'll pass it on.

Mad world.

Evil Comic Mastermind

There was a rather good party last night at Vertigo. Everyone survived, and that is usually a decent start. I found a new way to get in by clambering up the fire escape and diving through an open window. Very Maxwell Smart. Of course the multiple cans of coke that I had and the 2 cans of Red Bull (it was my first time and I'm laying the blame on Nic for the resulting loss of innocence) meant that I was freakin' buzzin, man. Haven't been that pumped since a crazy night in 98 when I thought I could fly. *sigh*

Included in this sugary buzz fest was a top conversation with Ben, which has lead to a change in focus. I'm now no longer plotting to be a lecturer, academic, policy analyst or even burger flipper. I am now planning to become an evil comic mastermind.

I anticipate huge personal gains for myself. For starters, people won't snigger when I tell them I'm planning to become a historian. Secondly, I will pull evil hot groupies. While Ben doubts the ability of the comedian to get some, I remember when Seinfeld was in trouble for getting young some. And I don't wear jeans with white sneakers.

The third aspect of this plan which I am looking forward to is a successful invasion of Crete. Crete is an ideal strategic island from which I could control the Mediterranean, work on my tan and drink lots of ouzo. There is something inherently attractive in the irony of me ruling a bunch of Cretans.

Speaking of which, I gave a ride home to Claire, Ben, Emma and James T. After dropping Emma off in the middle of no-where (she's free now) we were in the process of abusing Claire when I spotted a canoe on the side of the road (Brougham St?). I don't understand why it was there, but I didn't really trust it. Claire wanted to take it home but I vetoed that idea. It was giving me attitude.

Happy Dave, Angry Dave

The title is not supposed to allude to that tension between our competing natures, but does so nicely anyway. I've got a theory, possible broken, that everyone has two competing sides. Yin, yan, black, white. In my case the struggle is between the idealist (Happy Dave) and the cynic (Angry Dave). Due to the fact that I am a student, with no money worth speaking of, an increasing loan, and a love life so dry that the sahara looks like a sunny oasis, the cynic is the dominant force at the moment. This is probably bad news for you lot as we have just entered the year of the monkey, and I'd much rather be facing a happy/idealistic monkey than a cynical one. I should point out that by using the term 'angry', I'm not refering to a pulsating emotion which causes my to turn green and rip my clothes off like a bad soft porn actor. I'm looking at the more frustrated anger. If you think of George W Bush talking for 8 minutes on the use of steroids in professional sport in his State of the Union speech - that's the sort of frustrated anger/emotion I'm trying to describe.

There was a point to this. I've been trying to learn to play the guitar off and on for quite some time now. Frustrated with the lack of progress on my guitar, I've decided to sell it and I had it round at Charlies so that Vanessa could have a look at it and decide whether she wanted to buy it ($160 with bag and brand new $40 capo if you're keen). I was round there yesterday and we made a horrifying discovery. My guitar is a 2/3 guitar! Evil *self imposed censorship* shop who sold me the guitar. Very frustrated to think that one of the reasons I never really kept at the guitar was because I was irritated by the small fretboard. I should point out that I do have large fingers - but still grrrr. So I'm going to sell this guitar (it's still in very good condition), get the money that I am owed back from various people and add that to my not inconsiberable stash ($40) that I won at the casino the other night and buy a decent, full sized nylon string classical guitar, learn how to play Pearl Jam's 'daughter' and Gomez's 'We haven't turned around' and wow the ladies.

That, of course was idealistic Dave. Cynic Dave too busy laughing at self.

The End of Robert

Claire has given Robert his marching orders, and he is more than happy to go. Officially the story is that Robert wanted to go and find a flat with more Christian flatmates. But this was coming from Claire, and I'm not sure if I can take her word on this matter. Not that I don't trust her, I just doubt her ability to maintain any semblance of tact. I did see Robert last night, however, so Claire did not kill him and bury him in the backyard. I nearly did, however, when he started talking to me about his religious faith and how he was going up to Hamilton for a Christian rave. I don't know why this irritates me. While I'm not a fan (in any sense of the word) of Christian music, I should be able to tolerate it. Rage Against The Machine, while not being religious, pushes a certain world view and in that sense the two brands of music are comparable. Rage, for me, is brilliant, Christian rock makes me want to scream. Perhaps it is a hangover from the time when rock was the medium for anti-establishment rebels and the renegades who flocked to their concerts. I'm aware of the possibility that I'm being supremely hypocritical. It is a possibility. But if someone else was going to that festival I don't think I would have a problem with it. The issue is not, after all the pro's and con's of Christian music (which is not rock 'n' roll), but that I would rather be using Robert to fertilise my tomatoes.

Must see film - Bob Roberts. Classy. And a doco to look for is The Corporation

By Crikey

I journeyed to the heart of Timaru this week, brave and intrepid sod that I am. My cousin was getting married, and no - although it was Timaru he was not getting married to another cousin. That didn't stop us from celebrating, of course. Some of us celebrated more than others, and somehow a group of us managed to find ourselves stumbling through the streets of Timaru in search of a feed on Friday night. Most put out to find that Macca's and KFC were closed at 1am. Instead had a fantastic feed in a Turkish Kebab house on the main street while the boy racing bogans were racing past. Surreal.

The wedding was fantastic and we all had a good time. Bride was stunning, Groom kept grinning, and the best man did not forget the rings. Greg, my brother, even exclaimed that after seeing the ceremony he could even commit to a relationship.

Among the rallies present was my great Aunt. She was having the time of her life enquiring after our sex lives. She was most upset to discover that not only was mine non-existent, but that I didn't know the name of the mysterious and enigmatic Mysterious Girl. My sex life is now being criticised by an 80 year old. I have to try harder. Then she started telling me how back in her day she could have any man she wanted, because where-ever she was there were 5 men to every woman. Llorna also told Greg that she expected him to have a girl in every port. She clearly comes from a more romantic age.

Then back to Christchurch with all teeth still in mouth and a party was to be had at Adam and Heidi's. Top effort all round, particularly by Ben who managed to keep up his record of removing anything he does not define as being essential to the structure of the house. This consisted of the garage, conservatory, a quantity of beer, and several guests. Participated in a number of remarkably inane conversations and I left the party early in the morning considerably less intelligent than when I arrived.

Thesis is going well. Am now in contact with the daughter of the author of the diary I am studying. Am going round to her house tonight for a cup of tea and a bit of a natter. She's promised me more material so I'm really quite excited by all this. Have also conveyed to supervisor that I think this topic would make an excellent PhD.

Have just read last sentences. Feel cold all over and have sudden urge to rock myself backwards and forwards while sucking my thumb. Need to get out more often, and, in the words of my randy Great Aunt, 'get some'.

Inexorable

Ben has recently described me as being inexorable. Being the sophisticated, intelligent and inexorable masters student that I am, I had no idea what that meant. The definition, according to dictionary.com is as follows.

inexorable

adj 1: not to be placated or appeased or moved by entreaty;"grim determination"; "grim necessity"; "Russia's final hour, it seemed, approached with inexorable certainty"; "relentless persecution"; "the stern demands of parenthood [syn: grim, relentless, stern, unappeasable, unforgiving, unrelenting] 2: not capable of being swayed or diverted from a course; unsusceptible to persuasion; "he is adamant in his refusal to change his mind"; "Cynthia was inexorable; she would have none of him"- W.Churchill; "an intransigent conservative opposed to every liberal tendancy" [syn: adamant, adamantine, intransigent]

I like number 1. Not to be placated or appeased or moved by entreaty. The implication is, of course, that I am in a position of power. I'm not sure how Ben arrived at this conclusion. I may possess all the charm, good looks and sophistication of a modern day Clark Gable, but to date I do not control a legion a mad and crazy followers.

Speaking of crazy, it appears that Nic has gone stark raving mad. You can see for yourself here. I would have sympathy for the poor bloke, but I'm inexorable.

Thesis thesis thesis thesis.

My lost mojo

Last week I was really quite excited by my thesis. Now it has all the attraction of a three day old pie left to fester in our fantastic sunshine and rabid nor-wester. I am trying to drum up the enthusiasm to relax and go to it, but sadly all I've managed to do so far today is read the paper, stare at my computer and fix some grammatical mistakes (yes, I do know what they are), and contemplate moving ahead and doing more work.

I need to do work today to because I'm about to head down south for my cousin's wedding. Not good for several reasons. Firstly, it's between Timaru and Gore, and I'm never really sure if I'll make it out of there with my two front teeth still in the front of my (purty) mouth. Secondly, I don't really like weddings now. Not that I'm anti-establishment/anti-wedding, but more that it makes me feel like I'm getting older. While most people hold this to be self-evident, I'd prefer to block from my world all the things I don't want to realise. Like war, thesis, inequality, and my flatmate. Claire is back today so maybe I lock the two of them in the gimp room together and let them fight it out. Of course, Robert, being a fundamentalist Christian, technically must turn his cheek as Claire sends thunderbolts of righteous red-headed fury toward him. Much like George W has. Maybe I should sell tickets. Be a nice little money earner.

Or, like Nic, I could become Schwarzenegger-esque and get paid for action. Kudos.

This is not a gossip column

Not that there is necessarily anything wrong with gossip, but I do want to emphasise that this is not some form of electronic tabloid. It is instead a sophisticated column on whatever I want to talk about. Sophisticated. Not gossip.

Apology here to Hayley who thinks that I quoted her out of context/made up something and attributed to her. I think she's wrong, but sorry anyway. People in this department never quote out of context or make things up.

We're trying to get rid of Robert. Or to be more explicit, I have to tell him to bugger off. He is seriously terrible. Not only does he have a similar I.Q. to that of a slowly melting ice cube, but he sucks the fun out of the flat. I'm not really looking forward to the conversation and I would prefer it if Claire had done it/was here to support me. But I have to do it anyhow. How can you do this? It feels like I'm breaking up with him - and I've never broken up with a guy before. Do I tell him I'm seeing other flatmates? That it's not him, it's me? That we're looking for different things in life, or that we've drifted apart? Some people have suggested that I play music really loud, or have lots of loud promiscuous sex outside his door. Valid suggestions, but I'm afraid he'll then take it upon himself to save my soul from the pagan hell I'm certain to wind up in.

Ended up not going out to play golf. Worked instead. Have to play a round later instead.

Also - check out the latest gadget they're selling in the United States. It helps detect dirty bombs! And gives you much needed peace of mind.

Quite.

On Golf.

Once upon a very long time ago I used to be a reasonable golfer. Various reasons forced me to give it up, not least was the cost while I was at uni. And while I am aware that I am still at uni (you wouldn't have figured this over the last two weeks - lazy bastard), I am going to try and take it back up. I went out the other night to Rarangi. It used to be long and tight due to thousands of trees planted in all the wrong places. Now it is sadly only long, as years of drought and lack of water (now going to the vineyards which are popping up in every location imaginable) have meant that most of the trees are now dead. But it is still long. And I was quite happy to find that despite my lack of action (golfing-wise in this context) I can still hit the ball a long way. My delicate touch around the green, however, has been replaced with a fumbling insecurity. I'm going back out this weekend to play in a couple of competitions and get my confidence back up. And win some tins of fruit.

Back in Chch on the 6th.