Rah rah

Am not happy with my department at the moment. Actually, I'm disturbingly angry. But I'm not in the mood to write about it (and it's bogus tutoring policy/practice). So instead I'll take out aggression on guitar when I get home tonight (thank god for Bob) and in the indoor soccer court.

Pain.

Recieved this from a mate in England. Worth reading:

Laura Schlessinger is a US radio personality, who dispenses advice to
people who call in to her radio show. On her radio show recently, she
said that, as an observant Orthodox Jew, homosexuality is an
abomination, according to Leviticus 18:22, and cannot be condoned under
any circumstance.

The following response is an open letter to Dr. Laura, penned by a US
resident, which was posted on the Internet.
******************************************

Dear Dr. Laura:

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I
have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that
knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the
homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus
18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination... End of debate.

I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements
of God's Laws and how to follow them.

1. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and
female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend
of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you
clarify why I can't own Canadians?

2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in
Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair
price for her?

3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her
period of menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15: 19-24. The problem is how do
I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a
pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is, my neighbors. They
claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2.
clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill
him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?

6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an
abomination - Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality.
I don't agree. Can you settle this? Are there 'degrees' of abomination?

7. Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have
a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does
my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle- room here?

8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair
around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev.
19:27. How should they die?

9. I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me
unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev.19:19 by planting two different
crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of
two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to
curse and blaspheme a lot.

Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the
whole town together to stone them? Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn
them to death at a private family affair, like we do with people who
sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy
considerable expertise in such matters, so I am confident you can help.

Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and
unchanging.

Signed,
An adoring fan

**Ends**

The end of Nic

Nic has submitted his thesis. This goes against one of Nostradamus' most famous predictions:

Nic won't finish his thesis.

Of course, Nostradamus was often ambiguous and anything can be read into the above statement. For example, what is Nic? What is a thesis, and how do you finish it? No, I'm serious - how do you finish a thesis? I need it to be done and over, but at the same time it is my baby and I'm not going to allow some random dude judge it and, by neurotic implication, me. Mine mine mine mine mine. Me me me me me.

Ben is also about to finish his thesis.

Which, all in all is a bloody impressive effort. Big ups, lads, and I look forward to drinking on Saturday and then shooting to kill on Sunday.

Paintball

I'm going to take this opportunity to proclaim myself the official spokesman of the Paintball war between the forces of good and justice (History) and the forces of evil, worthless pieces of trivia and star wars fans (political science and hangers-on). My role as the official spokesperson is to record as accurately as possible the events that occur next Sunday, the embarrassing moments, the number of times Hamish runs into a tree, and ultimately, who is the eventual winner.

Bearing in mind that Pols includes the founding members of TBALC -Tim and Ben (why does that make me want to sing 'flowerpot men'???) - as well as Nic, Claire, and MC Caygill, the battle is destined to be an amusing, fiery but ultimately one sided affair.

There are several reasons for this.
1. The members listed above.
2. Celebratory drinks for Nic and Ben the night before.
3. The Hangover.
4. Charlie is in London.
5. The skill and talent inherent within me and my homies in the hood. Paintball hood, that is.
6. We sent Mike to the Mountains of Nepal to train with the Nepalise. He took on a garrison armed with nothing but too much alcohol and a smile. He's back, and now one of those 'silent types'.

There are, unfortunately, several reasons why the Pols army could pull off the unlikely and be victorious.
1. Hamish will probably fight on our side.
2. Gus.
3. Murphy's Law. As I've been talking our chances up, the great Irishman in the sky is likely to smite me.
4. Ben might be as good at war as he is at cricket, singing, procrastination and SW trivia. And he will have finished his thesis and thus no longer be a 'loser'.

Fortunately we have devised a secret weapon - a plan, if you will - that will neutralize and so-called 'opposition' and bring sweet, sweet loving/victory to the merry forces of ego. And crack cocaine.

Ben Affleck can't act

And John Woo cannot direct. Went and saw Paycheck the other night. I didn't like it, Sarah did, and everyone else fell in between somewhere (except for Emma who giggled too much after the movie for anyone to understand what she was trying to say).

I'm not saying that there were no cool moments, or moments of 'potential' which ultimately left me feeling sad and lifeless for what may have been. The problem was, I think, casting a reasonable supporting actor in a leading role, and having a B- action movie director directing something that should have been far more dystopian or Sci-fi.

Perhaps he should direct the next Star Wars.

And of course there will be another Star Wars (Episode VII anyone?) because the series, like my thesis, just will not die. Comment, Ben, I dare you.

Michelle is leaving. Which sucks. Not that we really knew each other, but we insulted the other like we did. Which is the important thing. Have fun, go wild and good luck for a kick-ass job.

Revelations

According to those who know me on Orkut, I'm a lot cooler than I am trustworthy. This is good as it means that I can smoke more cigars in an attempt to look cool, while not impacting on my moderate 'responsible' tag.

You would think that those people who would be advertising anti-spam products would not resort to spamming people in order to sell their products. It seems silly. But I got spammed for anti-spam.

The person who drove into my car and then left without leaving a note is still a jackass.

Nic is my nemesis and I shall hunt him down, taunt him like the rabid political science student he is, and spray him with paint. Probably will be easier during paintball, but you never know. It seems harsh that I can use the inter-web thingy to turn public support for him into some form of popular movement for the defenestration of Nic - while he is patently unable to blog. But then again he has lobster, wine and a girlfriend for tea tonight so I figure something's going to have to rain on his parade.

I can be a something.

The Gates of Hell

While struggling to get to sleep late last night (again), I was watching the BBC or ABC World news report on the 9/11 Commission. The basic conclusion was that the previous two administrations stuffed up - big time. Fair enough, I suppose. What alarmed me, though, was the language that all the Commission members were using. While I understand that the attack has left a scar on the collective American sociology, I am disturbed by the fundamentalist Christian imagery and ideology that seems to be seeping out of this inquiry. Take, for example, the Commission's critique of Clinton and Tennet's decision not to assassinate Bin Laden and their 'soft' handling of the attack on the U.S.S Cole in the latter years of Clinton's presidency. One member of the Commission, who talked a lot, used the phrase 'the Devil was breathing down our necks', and that failure to respond 'adequately' meant that the United States has entered the gates of 'hell' and is still stuck in hell trying to find an escape route.

I don't like this imagery. People have said from time to time that there are elements of the United States administration that were fighting a crusade, and this sort of language backs this up. To argue or imply that Bin Laden is the, or a, Devil is extremely dangerous. For starters it undermines relations between Christians and Muslims - and they're already reasonably undermined. With Bin Laden being a Fundamentalist Muslim, and Bush being a fundamentalist Christian, the portrayal of Bin Laden as the Devil, as Evil, as Satan implies that Bush is the opposite. Christian good, Muslim bad.

Furthermore, even if the language being used by the commission is strictly allegorical and the members themselves do not believe in it, there is a danger they or others will come to believe in it. Repeat something often enough and it becomes true. Rabelais had to believe in Christianity because the language around him in 16th Century France was so infused with Christian symbolism and metaphors - they even told the time by the Bible. Orwell has shown how language dictates how we think - and although he argued that a reduction in our vocabulary reduces our capacity to think in an abstract and critical manner (double plus good), it is reasonable to extend this to a vocabulary heavily weighted in favour of a particular party or person. Just look at the Cultural Revolution in China, or the Beloved Leader in North Korea.

Language plays an exceedingly important role in our lives and the lives of those we kill in our god-awful crusades. We should treat it with a degree of respect.

Class over.

The Limit of Imagination

There is a man I know who surprised me today by telling me one of his more bizarre fantasies. And before you ask, I'm not going to name him. Two reasons: firstly, I like the guy and don't want to smash his reputation infront on you vultures. Secondly, this way I keep the power.

This man is not me.

He found himself having a rather sexual dream involving a young, female character from the Harry Potter series. I could go Freudian on your ass (you want your mother), but I think this really raises the question of the difference between intent and fantasy.

There is clearly a difference. To fantasize over someone who is well under the legal age for legal consensual sex might be creepy and wrong, but it does not necessarily equate with an intent to sleep with someone so young. I don't buy into the "Hollywood makes them look so old" argument, either. 14 is still 14. But fantasy ain't intent. So I won't call Deborah Coddington just yet.

There are healthier ways to spend your evenings. Such as legal and consensual (not meaning to imply that you could have legal and unconsensusal) sex with your significant other, non-significant other, or self. If you want to torture yourself, work on your thesis, work for Meridian, study law, support the Highlanders or fall for someone who is either Canadian or too busy with the future to bother with you. Damn flat. Feeling bad about unintentional fantasy might amuse me mightily, but it probably isn't the best thing for your mental health.

And ease up on that crack.

In other news, the Aqua Marine Plastic Cups play their first game tonight. Woo, yeah! I still insist on calling us the Water Water Plastic Cups, despite Tim's pedantisism.

I am the pool boy

In my reckless pursuit of more internet crack cocaine (or 'hits' as Ben refers to them) I am going to appeal to that animal lusting that lodges somewhere deep, dark and dank inside you. That's right, people, love testing time. Done by the same people as the spark, this one will even match us up to see who would be the best matches together. It is a fun and safe way to distract Ben and Tim from that which shall not be named. It's also a safe way to hook those two up. You know you want it. Except you, Sara. Sorry.

If you take the test (take it), log back on to this site and record your personality 'type'. I am the pool boy, which means that while I enjoy 'love', I prefer crotches - but that doesn't mean I'm getting any. The False Messiah is my nemesis and he shall be smote. With a pool net.

And yes, James, McLaren is the only team worth mortgaging my soul and following through the pits of fiery hell for. Which seem to be what we're doing at the moment. What the hell are they getting Montoya in for?? They need someone calm and stable - such as Mark Webber (or even the sentimental pick of Scott Dixon). I doubt Raikkonnen and Montoya will get along.... Raikkonnen is a genuine title contender - if he even gets a car that will last to the finish. He doesn't need to be distracted by someone who is as temperamental and unprofessional as Montoya. A Webber, Dixon, Couthard or Button is required to support him and the team. I'm not advocating a system like Ferrari's where Barrichello is obviously under orders to do anything that is in the best interests of Schumi during the race. I dislike that policy. Bastardios. But you need a stable racing environment within the team in order to translate the mechanical and technical potential into race position and race points on the track. I like Montoya, I just wish he was in a Williams, Renault or BAR next year.

Give me Ron Dennis' job, I say. Bloody false messiahs.

Survival of the beer herd

A herd of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo. And when the herd is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first. This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members.

In much the same way, the human brain can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells. Now, as we know, excessive intake of alcohol kills brain cells. But naturally, it attacks the slowest and weakest brain cells first. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine.

And that is why you feel Sandra after a few beers.

[ed: is meant to be 'feel smarter', but this looked better so I went with it.]

23% Nerd and counting

I took Tark's rather bewildering and highly disturbing Nerd test. There was much badness and scratching of my head before I poked the computer with a stick. I think I monkey would have got 25%, so I think I'm safe for now. While I take pride in my geekhood and metaphorical masculinity, and am not a nerd. Not not not not not.

Of course, had Tark not been busy flexing his nerdic muscles in front of the online community (nerds, all of you), he may have been able to turn up to Sarah and Emma's excellent party and seen Tim wearing what can only really be described as the worlds largest orange, spandex human condom. Unfortunately it suited him and he more it often. Much happened, including several people getting 'new' people into bed. Nic managed to find his bed, which was quite a good effort, all things considered. Show of hands who thought a keg of icebreaker was a good idea. Hands down if your name starts with Tim James. Ben amused himself with the moths by the light, or perhaps, like the moths, he was attracted to and hypnotised by the bright, bright seductive bulb. So very pretty. Which was a little unfortunate because he'd nearly charmed the pants off me at kareoke on Friday night. That boy has a smooth voice. I was forced (emphasis on forced) to sing several songs, including Video Killed the Radio Star, Hard Day's Night, and I am the Walrus. Apologies to those who know what the songs are supposed to sound like, and what the musical term 'key' means.

Met Pen this weekend, which was interesting.

And watched Ferrari and McLaren destroy my dreams of a McLaren victory at Sepang. BAR looks better at this stage. I want to cry.

I'm a thief

Not because I stole the stars to put in your eyes, but because the School of Arts had their opening ceremony today underneath the Masters window. Now I'm no prude or someone who would say no to stealing something from someone who owes me (and they do, the bastards). So I invited myself down to the corporate section of their rather corporate tent and allowed myself to be swayed by the pleas of those who wanted to get me wine and food. Did I mention that it was free wine and free food? Perhaps I should. It was free wine and free food. Bonzai. Stayed their for about an hour, listening to Liam on the Sax crank out some decent jazz and rubbing shoulders with the I'm-not-rich and the I'm-not famous. I think I managed to acquire the contents of approximately one bottle of rather lovely Selaks Sauv Blank. Which was disposed of in the traditional manner of into the mouth and down the gullet. So was a glass of rather delic Chilean red wine which may or may not have cost a packet at the liquor store. And then there was the food... yeah, I'm pretty proud of myself.

I then made my way up to the pub and Tim, Dave, Amanda and Dan who were hard at work downing their coke's and the worlds most annoying man, ever. I'm not using hyperbole for dramatic effect folks, I'm using it literally. The man was the worst, most obnoxious and annoying engineer to have ever mooched of the face of this planet. Unfortunately, when I was half way through a pint of beer, those scoundrels took to the hills at left me floundering with only annoying-boy and Ben for company. I really do have to emphasize that Ben did not leave me alone with this Satan of emptiness and I do owe him a dept of gratitude. Rodney does not, however, and is coming for him soon.

Everyone has now gone from the pub and I have about an hour before I can show myself there again without getting molested by people I don't know or people I don't want to know. And there is only one way to kill time.

If Dave was left in front of a computer for an hour, what could he come up with? If a million monkeys typing for a million years could come up with Henry V, surely Dave could and would come up with something equally patriotic yet strangely attractive and literally brilliant?

No.

I am a simple man with simple country values. I like fine wine, fine winging, and I suppose I could get around to some fine lovin' at some stage (if I could remember what it was like). Unfortunately Shakespeare was not just a simple country lad, but a simple country lad with talent and sex appeal. How else could you explain the fact that he married someone ten years older than his 18 year old self? Perhaps she was really desperate, and so was he. Scholars haven't raised that issue before. But then again we must consult the legend of Richard III. One night a lady, who had been particularly enamored by Richard Burbage, who played all the best roles. She left him a note to tell him to arrive at a particular apartment and a particular time. When Burbage arrived he knocked on the door and a servant answered. The servant was told who was coming a-calling. The servant the gave Burbage a note which read something along the lines of 'William the conqueror came before Richard III'.

Wily old fox.

I could, of course, go into some detail as to the scope and depression those of us still loyal to te McLaren brand of F1 are going through at the moment. Bloody Ferrari's. Red certainly does seem to go faster and the preliminary data from the Friday practice at Sepang suggests that it is going to be a repeat of Melbourne(Schumi was 2 seconds faster than Raikkonen on 1st practice, although that doesn't necessarily mean much - Raikkonnen did less than half the number of laps as Schumi - although you'd have to with a merc engine). Bah. But if I keep at this no doubt Claire will laugh and remind everyone that although I love F1, I still giggle whenever a girl wearing short shorts attempts to do car related stuff. Even if it is Claire.

There is Sarah and Emma's party on Saturday night. Apparently we are supposed to get dressed up for this. Something beginning with an E, an M, an M or and A - the theme is clearly Emma. I suppose this works as it was her birthday recently. I'm not really sure what to go as, as I'm rather lazy and can't be assed hiring out a parrot suit. Perhaps I'll go as an Agent, or a Mad Man, or an Erudite Mad Man Angrily. Ahh, the Erud. And Tim is expecting me to get drunk on lolly water (of which there is a keg) with him. I'm sorry, Tim, I still go through the motions of having testosterone. rah rah and all that.

Not that testosterone is at all necessary in this day and age of women taking over the world and Tony Blair being an idiotic idiot with less common sense than a one-armed lobster in a crayfish pot. I'm not sure whether I want to schmak him, hit him over the head with a lobster pot or laugh at how dogmatically he answers any question to do with the war in Iraq with 'The world is a safer place without Saddam Hussein'. Yes, Tony, Saddam was an evil s-o-b. But it does not necessarily go that Saddam's departure and imprisonment in violation of the Geneva conventions is going to go anywhere toward ensuring that the threat that terrorism against the west is reduced and eliminated. Iraq could never be held up as an example of capitalist occupation, of American colonisalism, of cruel, ruthless and inept murder (most foul). That would never anger young, impressionable men whose only purpose in life is either to get laid or get blown up trying.

Alcohol still coursing through the system. Despite the fact I spent 10 minutes playing yeti style games there is still half an hour to go before I have to supervise kids singing at the tops of their lungs, out of any semblance of tune or key. Such is life. Maybe some of them will be attractive.

To the pursuit of our hopeless task!

I'm rich

Or I would be if I handed over my bank account details to someone who wants to give me US$1,500,000. Apparently I won some draw in some huge lottery that I, apparently, entered. Funnily enough someone else at Canterbury also won. You'd think that was a bit of a coincidence, really. Especially given that we both must have had exactly the same ticket and ticket numbers in order to get the same email.

Anyway, I'm going to use my money to repair my car which now has another massive dent in after leaving it out on the street for 45 minutes the other night. Dave not happy. And I'm going to campaign against Tim becoming a Hindu goddess. It's not that I don't trust Tim, it's just that he's more than enough trouble with two arms. Imagine what he'd be like if he had six arms, a long trunk and was a shimmery blue colour.

*shudders*

Dear John

Turns out I'm one distraction she didn't need in her ruthless pursuit of the future. I'm surprised that I'm surprised and angry that I'm angry. I'm not angry at her - frustrated, certainly - but I'm keeping with my moronic and idiotic tradition and blaming myself. Very Heathcliff.

I don't buy the 'I'm too busy for anything or one new' routine. Would have preferred the 'not attracted' or 'attracted to somebody else' stance. Honesty is brutal but better in the long run.

Of course, I never want to hear about this again. It will be pressed and repressed into a small ball which I will swallow and ignore until I'm middle aged with a middle-aged paunch, comb-over, lipstick and a sawn-off shotgun. And alcohol is definitely a no go for a while.

Probably the best news my thesis has ever had.

The spasmodic experience

In many ways I am a small, depraved man. But not as bad as some. Take, for example, the following quote from a serious academic work.

'In the absence of normal sexual outlets masturbation is to be expected among those who found celibacy too trying and it appears to have been widely practiced in the POW camps of World War II. Younger men who had little or only spasmodic experience, or perhaps had not sampled the delights of sex before captivity were probably less prone to indulge than married men. The latter, when they had nothing to do and when their stomachs were full, would relive their courting days, the wedding nights, the honeymoon and Sunday afternoons on the carpet.'

I need to get out more. Or, perhaps, I need to get in more.

Popular Party not Popular

The Socialist won in Spain. The Popular Party alienated quite a few when they immediately pointed the finger at ETA for political purposes.

This is a huge set back for Bush as the Socialists have promised to withdraw their troops from Iraq. Apparently some 90% of Spanish oppose the war in Iraq, and when the President was casting his vote the other day he was greeted with shouts of 'Murderer'. I find this particularly interesting.

Can a president who sends his troops to an illegal war be guilty of murder? This is purely hypothetical and moralistic and does not take into account diplomatic immunity or retrospective immunity for the head of state (grr).

To start from the start, if a man (Bob) kills another man (Stan) he is guilty of murder.

If a Bob sends an assassin in his place is he still guilty of murder? The answer must be yes. The assassin is the extension of Bob.

The situation gets convoluted with the situation involves 'reasonable foresight'. If Bob told the assassin over a pint of beer that he wished Stan was dead, is it reasonably foreseeable that the assassin would kill Stan? That would probably depend on context and the way the conversation went - and whether the assassin was paid.

What if Bob was the president of a country that invaded Stan's country? Sending soldiers into another country fully armed (and paid) must surely entail some reasonable foresight that someone would end up dead - and probably some innocent civilians/collateral damage. Would Stan therefore be guilty of murder as the army may be analogous to the assassin? Would the situation change if the war was in self defense? What if the war was illegal?

It gets complicated, and that is why I think we have that rather large umbrella called 'crimes against humanity' and 'war crimes' in which these cases are judged. Of course, only the loser is judged - see Milosvech compared with Sharon, Bush II, Churchill, Stalin or Stormin' Norman.

I'm not really going to have a conclusion on this one. Too complicated. Too lazy.

In breaking news, Nic still hasn't updated his blog.

But Corey has and is thus congratulated. This is a new and different blog from his old one. Different as in he seems now to use it. Is pleasing to see that his young niece is addicted to E, and nephew P.

Colours make you angry.

So do rather embarrassing episodes at Phu Thai which shall never be repeated or spoken of again. Luckily the medication is kicking in although those colours are starting to bounce off the walls again.

On a slightly more serious note, Spanish officials have arrested five men in connection with the Madrid train bombings. Interesting to see that they were all foreigners. My bet is that it was the work of an Al Qaeda splinter cell or something along those lines. I don't think it was the work of ETA, although to be fair I'm not exactly very knowledgeable on Spanish internal politics. It is in the best interests of the conservative government to portray the blasts as being the work of ETA as they have been tougher on the seperatists than the socialists. They probably wouldn't want it to be the work of Al Qaeda as that would imply the bombings were the result of the unpopular decision to unequivocally support Bush's invasion of Iraq.

Ends.

Repent now, ye fornicators

Nic was correct to suggest that tenderhooks were technically supposed to be tenterhooks in the previous blog. Snaps for Nic about that, but perhaps he misses the greater picture. The word tenderhooks (it's a word in my world) has a number of connotations that I thought were appropriate to the situation. Emotion of this sort is often thought to fall somewhere between tenderness and a raw form of hurt. It is also something that people get stuck on and for some inexplicable reason find it difficult to let go, no matter how logical or sensible it may be to do so. We all live in our own little imagined realities and I suppose that there is always something to get hung about. This is what I love about the English language - there are so many subtleties and nuances which we can use, abuse and invent in order to get our point of view across. There are some absolute fanatics who swear that we shouldn't change anything about English. This is complete and utter bollocks. The most important thing about English is, in my arrogant opinion, that it is such a dynamic and fluid language, wrapping us close to its warm and sometimes (if you're doing a thesis) suffocating bosom. Shakespeare invented words. Orwell warned us against destroying them. If we want to think and expand the boundaries of our conception we must be able to learn new words and occasionally use ones that are slightly out of place in order to add a subtle flavour or suggest an intricate position.

And I love the pun. Highest form of humour.

Speaking of humour, it appears that the inability of the young American bloke to read 'police' can have hilarious consequences. Having someone walk in on you either by yourself or with someone (or group) special and naked can be a traumatic experience. So I've heard. Here is some advice with people who have clearly had experience. Of course, cutting off you penis would probably stop that sort of event ever occurring.

For some sick reason that seems like an appropriate place to finish.

Tenderhooks and postmodernism

It's rather amusing (in a detached and evil way) on how much I can read into several lines of an email. Of course, the cruel and maniacal (and dominant) side of my ego is convinced that anything I receive that mentions a 'chat' with somebody in particular is merely the warm up to a large and nasty gladitorial combat where I am tied to a stake while lions, tigers and bears (oh my) fight to eat, devour and destroy my vital organs in the slowest and most painful manner possible. I'm not looking forward to that. A quick and painful death would be preferable, and that would have probably come in the email if it was a) meant to be a death, or b) meant to be a painful death. The fact that the said email didn't being with the lines 'fuck off you scary home boy' is very good, and the fact that the term 'chat' was used in lieu of the phrase 'we need to have a talk' is very good.

The amount of non-seedy self abuse I put myself through is remarkably severe. In a previous life in the olden days I was probably one of those who was convinced that a) the sky was going to fall on my head, b) that the day of judgment was upon us, c) that the minister's daughter was really hot but that because I was thinking unpure thoughts I should be stoned and then hung drawn and quartered. d) I probably read too much into the stone tablets we passed each other on the way to the colosseum to watch the annoying little god folk get devoured by the same lions, tigers and bears (oh my) that were metaphorically destroying my real and imagined vital organs in a cacophony of pain and real and imagined self-flagellation.

It's far more enjoyable to write this type of blog however, far more me. So while I might be putting myself through that big meateater of life, at least my literary self appears to be having a good time of it. We shall call him Heathcliff, and he revels in railing against the elements.

Bastard.

The department paid for me to get sozzled

I wouldn't normally use the world sozzled, but seeing as I am I will. We had 'meet the new students', one of whom is Rae, and the department included a rather lovely selection of food and drinks. Me being me, I headed straight for the cheap cardboard plonk and proceeded in making you lot quite proud of me. Unfortunately I'm the postgrad rep for the history department and had to go around an introduce myself to a bunch of strangers. Hopefully I didn't convince them that life is all about thesis and alcohol. Luckily I was exceedingly witty and convinced almost everyone that declaring war on the vile, sadistic, masochistic and inebriated (how ironic) department was a good thing. As a result we have a bunch on idealistic warriors trained in the ways of Dave.

Which does not include fighting with 4 lightsabres. That's just daft. You heard me.

Went to the debating meeting last night. Unfortunately when I told Nic about it he thought that I said the 'Spading' meeting, which is somewhat close to the truth. I have always wanted to get involved with debating at uni level, however, and am no going to represent my university (Canterbury) in my province of birth and ideological/rugby origin (Otago). Which is pretty cool. 2 people per team, speeches of 5-6 minutes, conclusion of 3-4 minutes and preparation time of THREE minutes. It's all very celebral. So I'm in a lot of trouble. But I loves it. And if anyone knows somewhere that might have a bed I would appreciate it. Otherwise I'm sleeping in the car.

And you heard it here first. (I am not a tabloid). Michelle has proposed to Ben (she's a keeper, mate). Other reports suggest that she is very pro SW and has taken offence (when non was intended to be given) when I suggested that SW has been lacking in overall goodness in the last two episodes, and will probably do so again soon. At this rate, Miche will soon become my very first anti-groupie. Current groupie count: four.

In next issue, Sara lives with bigfoot.

Ben took the bait

I have to admit that I am a ratings whore. I like seeing that little counter going up as it feeds into my self inflated ego. Soon I'll be nothing more than a smutty tabloid. Ohhh, the smut. Mentioning bad things about Star Wars clearly works as Nic, the man who never blogs, decided to contribute.

And yes, I will go and see Star Wars VI. Hopefully with Ben because I'm a small person in many ways and will take delight in the way that he enjoys it regardless of how predictable and, yes I'll say it, bad it becomes. Some people chase ambulances, some chase the tanks and planes of death with cameras. People follow things they think or hope might turn out to be disasters. Look at how popular Bush is. So I'll see Star Wars VI

Four light sabers will not be cooler than two. Sometimes two is a better number. In fact, I think it shows that George Lucas is running out of ideas. What would be cooler than 2 light sabers? FOUR light sabers. Genius. And he's gone and cut Natalie Portman's hair (according to groupie Mike).

Sorry, Ben and Michelle. I work for the Emperor now.

Slow mo

I seem to be moving perpetually in this weird fog or haze at the moment. Lethargy reigns, and my chapter has stalled somewhat, despite having (and this word I despise more than any other) potential. It's not that my ideas are bad - some of them are actually surprisingly good and I can see how they'll all tie up nicely. Unfortunately some of the text is turgid, turgid, pungent trouble.

I'm not sure what I need to do to get out of it. I'm not even sure why it has descended (or for that matter, ascended) onto me. Perhaps it is because I've finally kicked my addiction to coke and Lift plus (take that, dark lord) and am thus on mega caffeine withdrawal. Perhaps I'm in mourning for Ben, Michelle and the rest of the Star Wars troopers who are convinced that this next installment will be something approaching good. Perhaps I'm worried that I'm only going to have one mochachino. Or that the Highlanders are going to choke again and finish just outside the top four. Again. Or that I saw the sad sad sight of McLaren the other day.

I'm working on a cunning plan. Top-shelf cunning. Not sure what sort of plan it will be, how it will be carried out, why I'm scheming or even what I'm scheming about. But I'm sure it will be very cunning.

Take the power back

There is a school of thought going around certain Canadian sections of the History department which suggests that men should deny women sex. The theory being that if we, as men, complain of not being in the mood, or having a headache or what-have-you, the woman in question will be confused and disoriented and ultimately want it more. This would shift the power back to men.

Given my lengthy stint of enforced celibacy I feel that I'm in a position to comment on this issue.

No.

Firstly, who would enforce a period of celibacy upon themselves in order to prove a point? It could go disastrously wrong and the girl could call your bluff. Or worse, the girl-girl network could kick into action, denying thousands of men the potential for action. I've seen Legally Blonde 2 and was scared by their stylishly efficient efficiency.

Secondly, she could dump you for a man who wanted to have sex (pick one, any one).

Or she might decide that she preferred women and you would then be known as the bloke who scared her off blokes. I wouldn't want to be that bloke.

And finally, it could trigger the Apocalypse.

To conclude, don't be silly. There is enough pain and suffering in the lives of man without forcing more upon yourself. That's why we have women. And Trevor Mallard.

Red goes faster

As a loyal and perennially frustrated supported of McLaren F1, it was painful to watch today's grand prix. I honestly thought that we had a chance today, especially as I disregarded the pre season tests that did not conform to my rosy idealistic vision of a 1-2 finish. And there was a lot to be excited about. The new twin keel is pretty impressive and forced Williams to design their own to keep up with McLaren. And the new gearbox is a huge step forward in the construction of gearboxes - it is also twin and allows the driver to switch gears without the usual momentary loss in acceleration. The problem is obviously with the Merc engine. If I were Ron Dennis I'd be watching the BMW-Williams engine with green, green eyes. It seems so damn powerful. For example, the Williams was clocking up over 19,000 RPM while the impressive Renault (also a bit soft on the engine, admittedly) could only manage a shade over 17,000.

The scariest thing of all is just how impressive Ferrari, Schumi and Barrachello were. I can't talk about it. The pain is still to near to me.

So is the money. Went to casino and won large (ie $60). Is now safely hidden from the bank and will be put forward toward the Dave restaurant fund.

See Claire's blog. Link to shirt is scary, but joke is funny.

I was going to write about my ideas and thoughts on the evolution of small scale socialism and the decline of the wider community but I really can't be assed. Kind of ironic, I guess. Too late, too weekend. Too bloody Ferrari.

Stunned growth

Am moderately confused to discover that I have started to grow (in height) again. I stopped when I was 14/15 and didn't expect to start up again when I was 22. Which means some of my old pants are now around my ankles. Interpret that how you will. Unfortunately it means that I am constantly tired and exhausted, which probably means I'm a bit of a drag to be around. So no real change there.

And as my parents are down for the weekend, I am intending to win my millions at the casino.

bonjour nouvelle riche!

Bush declares war on ladders, oral sex

There are more people that die each year as a result of falling off a ladder and onto something painful than there are people who die as a result of terror. Of course, I'm speaking about the white man. When you factor in the UN related sanctions against Iraq and Libya then I'm sure things take a different slant. I'm not trying to suggest that falling off a ladder is not a terrifying way to go. It is, I'm sure of it. Especially if you are afraid of heights, in which case you should get down off that ladder. We have yet to see the war on ladders. Which is a pity because the war on the English language and common decency was going so nicely. Perhaps the ladders are part of some sort of gardening terrorist plot to kill us all as we paint our houses, prune our trees or try and see over our neighbor's nearest fence. Bastards. I knew that would get me in the end.

Also, scientists with way to much friggen time on their hands have discovered a link between, wait for it, oral sex and cancer. Man that blows. However, don't change your sexual antics based on a bunch of seedy scientists who want to suck all the fun out of our lives. Fortunately you are more at risk if you smoke or drink. The intention of that was that the alcohol and nicotine/evil smoking chemicals are bad for you. I read it, however, as suggesting that those who smoke and drink have more chance of having a good time. Both right.

And don't you love a New Scientist article entitled 'Oral sex linked to mouth cancer'. Mouth Cancer? Surely there is a more scientific name than mouth cancer.

Don't worry. Soon they'll be an article linking masturbation with hand cancer or RSI. Or sex with death.

Repent now.

Super Tuesday

It looks as though Dean is going to win his home state of Vermont. I can't help but laugh at this given that he has dropped out of the race. It's a bit like having a dead man stand for election. That happened once as well, didn't it?

I do owe Ben an apology after suggesting that his blog was tabloid and cheezy in content. That is not the case. The content on tbalc is informative, witty and often non-existent. Completely unlike a tabloid. At least he blogs more often than Nic. If you follow that link you'll probably find a blank screen as his server has forgotten what his blog looks like. Be more like Michelle, lads.

I can feel my cynicism and grudge against the world leaving me. That sucks. Cynicism and self abusive anger may not be all that it's cracked up to be, but it is the secret and source of all my powers.

For example, I can't make fun of the fact that Charlie texted me last night after he returned home after I'd dropped Fi off. He was alarmed that she wasn't there. Haven't heard anything about that since, do I can't have a bad taste joke (such as check the tomatoes) because I suppose something bad could have happened and that would suck.

Dear lord, what have I done.

Daily races

Had coffee with Mysterious Girl today and we got on very well. Think (and hope) that we will be seeing more of each other in the future. As her reality takes shape over her imagined unreality, I will phase her out of the blog. While it is fine for me to portray aspects of my life online it is not fair for me to do so with her. When I talk about my self I have the power (love that line) to portray myself in whatever light I want - good, bad, apt or inept. If I talk about her I might portray her in a light she does not find comfortable. That would not be good. Also, when I go to drinks or something with you lot you all tend to know what I've been up to and I therefore have nothing to say. Which means we're all happy. I would imagine that if she turned up to a party and found out that people knew stuff about her from off the net she might be a little creeped out, and fair enough too. To date I think I've blogged more on the imagined mysterious girl, as the name implies, and not so much on her as a person, so I think that it reasonable. Get your tabloid gossip elsewhere. Such as here.

Had Oscar night round at our place last night. Nic and Sarah turned up and Tim arrived half way through to eat Macca's. It was largely good, although was disturbed to find out that Claire had been doing the vacuuming and in a fit of righteous furor and red-headedness broke the vacuum cleaner. I believe her apology was something along the lines of 'deal with it'.

She then threatened to break Nic and I, so I dealt with it.

Wisely and slow; they stumble who run fast

And for whatever reason, I have a big smile on my face. In part due to an excellent Shakespearean quote that I had forgotten and remembered, and which is both amusing and accurate. But more importantly because coffee and a mad rant is good for one's health.

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.

Bonsai.

Radio Play

Hamish: Where'd Dave go?
Dave Miller: He's over the top
Hamish: Bloody hell. Why'd he do that?
DM: The boy got cabin fever. Too many hours in the trench watching us have mocachinos.
Hamish: But he could get hit now.
DM: Yeah. And he's got no gun. No paint to shoot.
Hamish: I find your phallic imagery strangely sensual and attractive. I'll sit here and look confused.
DM: Who's your Daddy?
Hamish: She's out there.
DM: Your Daddy's a girl?
Hamish: No, not yet. I was talking about the siren. The mermaid. The imagined reality of a confused mind.
DM: She's probably armed and dangerous.
Hamish: Damn straight. State of the art paintball machinery. That machinery could seriously harm his nipple.
DM: Again.
Hamish: Should we do anything?
DM: We can't. He put himself out there. No Man's Land.
Hamish: But Dave's out there. That could suggest masculinity and ownership Are you meaning to imply he's no longer masculine?
DM: What do you mean 'no longer?'
Hamish: Fair enough. What's going to happen now?
DM: Don't know. He'll find out one way or another. He can't do anything now, and all we can do is point and laugh in a supportive yet masculine way.
Hamish: There's a fine line between courage and stupidity.
DM: Yet both require balls.
Hamish: A little too ironic. And I really do think.
DM: What's that? I think I heard something.
Hamish: Like ten thousand....
DM: Sshhh. He's trying to say something.
Hamish: That's not Dave. That's the ghost of romance past.
DM: Huh?
Hamish: Why do you think we're cowering in the trenches?
DM: 'cos we're not daft.
Hamish: No Man's Land threatens us due to it's neutral gender-ity. We don't own it, and in today's masculine climate that threatens our primedal sense of balance and fairplay.
DM: Do the women own it?
Hamish: Sort of. They tend to control it without owning it due to the fact that it is normally men who have to put themselves on the line. Occasionally women do, but despite calls for equality of treatment, women still expect men be chivalrous and gentlemanly and put ourselves on the line.
DM: That is a bit rough and not at all equal.
Hamish. Quite right. Rah rah. I wonder what Emma and Ben thinks of all this.
DM: I'm sure they have an opinion.
Hamish: And what's more, they can express it in the comments box below.
DM: Let's have another mocachino and check out those first years.
Hamish: Splendid.

Claire and the telly

It is a good day to die. For some reason someone thought Richard III said that before the Battle of Bosworth Field, and I guess he had some reason to think so after the deaths of his adored wife and son (and heir). I guess he didn't know Shakespeare was lurking in the wings. But he had nothin, I tells ya, nothing. Today, you understand, is the Oscar's ceremony, broadcast un-live (dead?) on our TV. And Claire, bless her fiery little soul, is going to watch them and scream at the telly. Which is a good reason for me to avoid our flat for a while. It's not that I don't like Claire, it's that I like and appreciate my eardrums. Please don't tell her who wins. For me?

And the girls in my flat have set up a little temple to Manpower or something equally demeaning. Don't they realise that we are more than just our bodies? We have feelings and emotions that can be hurt, battered, bruised or can lift us to soar with the seagulls over a polluted landfill. I suppose I should give them the benefit of the doubt. Can't be easy living with someone as shallow as I.

In other news I have no other news.