Vroom

Honours has finally finished. Obvious, I hear you say, as I finished honours over 18 months ago. But a bunch of us carried through and did our Masters together. Most of them have finished (having an ethic and all). Sarah has a flash job in archives New Zealand, up in Wellington. Nice. And Mike and Hayley step on the plane today, with Corey, to go to Japan. Jimbo is going to Britain in a month or two. Angela to Canada soon also.

In the course of the last week and a half I've been to three going away dinners, one going away breakfast, and a going away party. Fat bastard.

It feels quite weird to be left behind. Not that I want to go, but Japan is a long way away. Then again Mike and Hayley, unlike some, aren't the type of people to move away and then deny that we still exist. Am trying to convince them to blog. Blog is the answer to everything. Except perhaps for work because if blog was the answer for work then surely Ben would have blogged more than what he has been doing lately. Even Nic has blogged more - letting us know the crime weather in Saskatoon is disturbingly charmingly revealing.

Right. I'm going to cocoon myself in a lots of work. That, at least, isn't going anywhere.

Tool for good

Blogs can be used for all sorts of nifty things. Like getting yourself noticed and invited to the Democratic Convention. I turned down that opportunity to spend more time with the sis and try and beat some lovin out of it. Would be fun to be there though. I'll always be amused by a large organisation who believes that it can replace the prince of evil with a trial lawyer. Didn't they see The Devil's Advocate? Sure, it may have been based on fiction - but so is the current political climate in the United States. Still, the democrats seem to have that wide eyed dreamy look people get after being in a cult too long or eating McDonalds. Still, their blind faith that the winner of the presidency will be decided by the winner of the election makes me feel all warm and gooey inside. The tension backstage must be fantastic. You have Bill, who wishes that he was still president and that more people would buy his book; Hilary, who wants to president and wishes that more people would buy her book; Al, who should be president and wishes that more people would buy his book; Jimmy, who was president and wishes he knew where he was; and Teresa, who just wishes everyone would shove it. The tension in front of the stage must be equally electric. You have the democrats who are really republicans; and the people who came with Carter.

I reckon it'd be more fun to nominate a stiff and get GB2 to campaign against a corpse. Wait a minute....

Alacrity

It's not the stuff that powers your television, stereo or egg-cooker. It's the stuff that powers my quick witted responses to your collective attempts to kick me due to my quick witted responses to your collective inability to cook me some eggs. And it's going to come in handy tonight. The alacrity, that is, not the eggs. Debsoc is having its impromptu speech competition. There are prizes - including cash and chocolate. The woman inside me is excited (if she'd cooked me some eggs I wouldn't have been hungry).

All this means that I am a little hyperactive. Not the type of hyperactivity that Tim gets into after skulling a case of KGB (see Arnie's comments on the girlie-men). More like the hyperactivity of a small child, neglected by parents but loved and cherished by television, coke and food dye. I'm bouncing off the walls, baby. Hoohar.

Hyperactivity can come in handy when giving impromptu speeches. It is far better than the traditional Dave response of looking out into the distance and seeing meadows filled with buttercups and the goat-women whenever anybody says something - probably explains why I appear distracted and grumpy all the bloody time. It is also better than freezing on stage and giving an adequate impression of a possum in the headlights.

Problems with hyperactivity do occur when they resemble the effects of crack cocaine. I've spent three months and four visits to various detox facilities (now closed - bastards) and only one of them was technically legit.

Damn time's moving slow. Feel like I've been staring at the ceiling and wondering what an earth a 'goat-woman' is - I was thinking a Swiss girl who milks goats in a buxom and environmentally friendly yet temptingly available way. You lot probably thought that I was after the female goats. I can deny that. I'm waiting for an appropriate time to roll around so that I can go and get some 'food' from the UCSA, watch the telly and then go and win that booty. 6.15 now. Started at 6.

Time for stream of consciousness. Brought to you by Ritalin which helps prevent them.

The problem with the steam of consciousness is that as soon as you attempt to tap in to the wonders of your subconscious psyche, your subconscious invokes it's R.O.A.R policy. Bastards. For me, and probably most of us although as I'm talking complete bollocks I can't really quantify that, my subconscious is a vast bar-like facility where all the decent stuff takes place. There is the id, hiding in the corner and oogling at most things female, the drunk and half-mad author who is determined that his craft won't be corrupted by the yawning open spaces of my conscious, there's probably a goat woman or two slinking around the back somewhere. And there is also that annoying little twat who manages to blurt out the most unfortunate, inappropriately amusing comments in the most unfortunate and inappropriate times. Like during scholarship interviews (cost me $50,000 - wanker), courtship proceedings (cost me potential ladyfriends), court proceedings (cost me 'freedom'), and drinking sessions (cost me teeth). The disturbing thing about this whole stream of consciousness (other than the fact that I'm writing a stream of consciousness) is that my subconscious is more and more resembling Dylan Moran's character in Black Books, whom I suspect is based very heavily on Dylan Moran himself. This is terrifying for a number of reasons. 1) I'm going to end up surrounded by books, Based on my recent library fines - and the fact that I am a 'student' you may think that I enjoy being surrounded by pies and piles and lines and lines of the world's most fantastic literature and thought. But, no. I hate it. It's terrible. Books scare me. I don't really like intelligent and intellectual discussions. That's why we get on so well. 2) I imagine my mouth shooting off would become far worse if I was under the influence of alcohol. I suspect the drop to the head I suffered when I was several weeks old, and then every second year for the next 12 may have resulted in a permanent state of intoxication. At least that makes me cheap. But not easy and that leads me to argument 3) He never scores. I don't like that and it seem to be a familiar plot device in that made action movie that is Dave. Action with no action is, well, lame. Frankly, if my life is odd enough to have the things that happen to me happen to me, it deserves action. How many people have been cut open by the worlds most surgically talented but woefully inept car-pirate? Not many. How many people wake to find that the council has put a bus stop around their car during the night and fined them for the profiled? Not many. Ergo more action and less Moran for Dave.

6.35. I'm going for food. Vote for the girlie-men.

Painful

If you'd read it in a book you wouldn't necessarily believe it. Kimi is a couple of seconds behind Shumi after the first pitstop, has more fuel in, in catching the Ferrari and has just set the lap record. Then, of course, his rear wing falls off while travelling 300kph. Apart from that - good race. At least Mclaren are on the pace again. DC would've made the podium save for his front wing and deflector being damaged by Kimi's accident.

Baumgartner has blisters on hands after the stadium section. Hard to believe that they can drive a f1 car without power steering.

Good work to Si for his cheap laughs. There is something inherently funny in Tony Soprano's inner kitten bunny being externalised, pumped full of steroids and made to attack Tony's Icelandic crime rival, Stuart Petefuck. They now have a show each fortnight. We should make it a thing.

Public Service Announcement
 
1) I'm not commenting.
2) I'm really quite confused.

The two are not related.

Man-hair

Am now more hairy than what I have been for a long time. Part of me likes it, part of me doesn't. It's warmer and more rugged. Then again, it is warmer and more rugged. Regardless, I've now splurged and bought a new razor so that I can shave without inverting my skin-flesh ratio. Time, I think for the handlebar moustache to make a reappearance in the world of style.

Blog you lazy bloggers. Or I'll do to you what I did to Lennon.

Dave: 'John, Yoko. Yoko, John'.

Update
 
Looks like I might be moving into an office soon. Awesome. My name in lamination.

It is currently quarter to 7 in the morning. Am still at varsity waiting for the main cafe to open at 7.30 so that I can go and buy a hot, meaty breakfast for $5 and read the paper. mmm protieny goodness.
 
I have finished my draft chapter which I've been working on for far to blimmin long. And, I gotta say, that feels pretty damn good. Should have been done months ago, but in the absence of anything that resembles my old work ethic I'm just going to lean back in a blurry-eyed daze and enjoy my reality for a minute or two.
 
I am a little concerned as to what has happened to my work ethic. Once upon a time I could work for hours upon hours without really caring - churning through the work at a great rate of knots. Caffeine pills helped, as they are wont to do - hallucinating small children with pigs heads chasing me home was not so fun. Well, to be fair to myself, I still can churn through the work when I feel the urge and the desire. Problem: Dave lost his mojo.
 
It's not under my desk or anywhere where I can tangibly find and touch  it. I don't think I lent it to Tim or Ben. Regardless - I'm not planning to touch them any time soon.
 
I think the main problem is that to a very real and large extent work has come to define who I am and what I do. I study and therefore I angst. I think and therefore I wish I didn't. It cracks me up when I run into people who haven't seen me for ages - and the first thing they ask - because they are interested and because they do care - is how the thesis is going. And it's always going.
 
The thesis doesn't exactly put out a lot. Fortunately I now have xbox love and it will put out when I tell it to.
 
Am starting to miss playing golf quite a bit. Ironic, given that I had to stop playing when I was 16 and it's only now that the urge to chase a little white ball all over the friggen golf course has returned (save for a brief, memorable and furnituresquelly rewarding summer of 2000). Getting outside and seeing the sun/smog while not being groped by eight hairy and ugly blokes could be quite a good idea. The problem with golf is that it does cost money. I've got all the gear etc, but by the time you pay for fuel, balls etc....
 
Fortunately, in the blurry-reality induced state, I've come up with a genius of a plan to get my money, save the day and win the girl.
Step 1) Infiltrate Al Quaeda.
Step2) Don't get caught.
Step 3) Find important and incriminating documents and the whereabouts of Osama.
Step 4) Hijack Osama and fly him to a remote location with access to video phone, warm shower and a change of clothes.
Step 5) Offer both Osama and incriminating documents to the highest bidder. All bids are to be in the form of monetary goods, although guarantees of spiritual (and physical) bliss in the afterlife will be taken into account. 'We won't kill you' will not be a valid option.
Step 6) Once the money and spiritual bliss have been deposited in the appropriate accounts and channeled through various winebox companies, I leave the island by jetski - conveniently located beside the deserted island and placid ocean.
Step 7) Find a really good plastic surgeon. Carve face into menacing smile so no-one will recognize me.
Step 8) Dye my hair green and wear bright red lipstick and a purple suit.
Step 9) Take 'care' of Michael Keaton.
Step 10) Take 'care' of Kirsten Dunst.

The difference between Rumour and Gossip
 
Lest one think that this blog is the creative outlet of an idle mind, I have decided to address the extremely complex, inarticulate and controversial topic of gossip and rumour in order to dispel some of the more ridiculous notions of the two.
 
Gossip and rumour are two different concepts. Rumour is 'the common talk' or a popular report. Gossip is intimate or scandalous rumour, or a British godparent.
 
In order to put this into perspective I will use contemporary examples and link them back to the above definitions. If we take the current National parties decision to imprison anyone related to a criminal and detain them in a large, inescapable quarry for the rest of their 'unnatural' lives in order to create an atmosphere of trust, love and companionship among the 'free majority' on the outside. This manifesto is clearly a populist pandering to the knee-jerk, Muldoonesque voters who want nothing more than to see NZ's surplus turned into a 19th century penal colony. Not only is it populist, it also appears to be popular. It is thus classified as 'rumour' as it is a popular report. I might add that it is idle rumour as no-one in National has bothered to really think about the social, political or economic ramifications of 1984. I'd prefer a brave new world. More drugs. More sex.
 
Gossip is an interesting topic. A number of us may or may not have been accused of being gossips by our man in London, Charles. I was once of the opinion that this meant that my idle an wagging tongue caused him grief - although I was confused as this made him to my eyes an introvert. Charlie is no introvert. Imagine my glee and surprise when I discovered that a gossip was actually a British godparent. Am slightly relieved that my idle chit-chat has not offended an esteemed colleague and drinking partner, and touched that his firstborn is my godson. So congratulations to Charlie, Charlina and Charleston.

Surprise
 
James T has found his blog. Am relieved as for while I thought that Wellington was indeed the ultimate frontier *shudder*. This now means that most people are either acquainted with, or have been reacquainted with the powerful voice that is blog. Not all people have, however, and I think/decree that the following people should get one. Charlina.
 
Tim should relearn how to use his.
 
Watched the final round of the British Open last night. It was awesome. 3 holes to go and Ernie Els was 3 shots behind Todd Hamilton. Hamilton has a strange resemblance to the T-1000. Else pulls out a birdie, birdie par and the T-1000 has a par, par, bogey. This forces 4 extra holes - aggregate. It's 6.30 in the morning and I'm silently screaming at the tv (as to not wake the flatmates) to hurry up and finish but secretly I'm stoked as the quality of play was absolutely outstanding. Best I've seen in a long time - actually the only I've seen in a long time but that is beside the point. Take my word that it was good. Els has a par, par, bogey, par and T-1000 had par, par, par, par to clinch the British Open. Am also pleased that a murdering, rampaging machine of death can serve it's time in the undiscover'd country, return, come from nowhere to win the Open (500-1 odds) and become a role model for hundreds of kids the world over.
 
Someone tell Brash.

Life in a cold climate
 
Good to see that Blogger is introducing more spangly things into the text menu. Like colour. Not that colourful text is really any good at all. Unless, of course, you are ten years old and feel the need to hide from your teacher that you have no idea what you were talking about and stumble upon the idea that colourful words might take the teacher's opinion and focus away from that dreadful storyline with no plot, little character development and dialogue that resembled George Lucas' deranged rantings on love and its resemblance to sand.
 
I had a meeting with Graeme (supervisor no 1) on Friday and I'm not really sure how it went. Why? Well, I turned up 3 hours late which probably wasn't that useful or endearing. I have a very good excuse, of course. Thursday night had seen Nic, Fi, Will, Ben and I travel to BP on Fendalton road to pick up some much needed Pie after welcoming Si (still not fat) back and grooving along with Vibraslap and Micky Finn's. On the way back to town to drop Will, Nic and violent, violent Fi back we (thankfully) noticed that there was a great big lamp-post in the middle of the road. Which we avoided and dropped Will off. Fi was quite keen on calling the police but the others shouted her down and called her mean names. I was too busy trying to avoid the lampposts to really have any say in the matter. After dropping Nic and Fi off to go to bed/spend more time fighting/ring the cops Ben and I decided that we'd better go a try and move the big lightpost/lamp-post out of the traffic. Discovering that it was to big to move out of one lane without putting it in another, we rang Vertigo and asked Pete to tell the others to make sure the cops were called - Nic's muffled screams as Fi targeted his ankle using her patented 'elbow o' doom' was amusing. Sadly, both Ben and I are imbued with some form of 'community spirit'. For this I blame my parents and Ben's parents. It cost me much sleep. While waiting for the police to turn up we tried to wave cars into the correct lane. Unfortunately the downed big thing that used to have a light on the end was located on a semi-blind corned on Fendalton Road just over the railway tracks heading toward town. Which meant that Ben and I would wave frantically at cars who would then slam on their break and miss us and the big think by mere inches. We certainly stopped one insanely fast taxi-van (complete with trailer) from hitting the bulb with his right front wheel at pace. (The bulb was 2/3 over the inside right lane). It has to be said that I appeared pretty cowardly. When cars drive at me fast, years of conditioning in Blenheim have taught me not to play chicken. It is better to act chicken and live to run away screaming like a little girl another day. So I was pretty close to diving over the median barrier a couple of times. Not Ben, however. Despite the fact he was wearing a fetching, bright red jumper - which made him a better target - he stood even further away from safety than I, and never flinched once. It's that kind of disregard for his own physical and mental wellbeing which makes him perfectly suited to having a relationship.
 
Anyway - after doing that for 3/4 of an hour to an hour the bloke from Orion showed up and swore a lot. I think he preferred the days of yore when posts were concrete posts, and crazy drivers who drove into them were dead.
 
Naturally, Ben and I dot to bed much later than we were expecting - I thus slept in and missed the meeting with supervisor. Met with him later. Odd meeting. Two main points. 1) I have a very fascinating and good thesis and thesis structure. 2) It is very odd and no-one has ever structured a thesis like this before.
 
Maybe it needs more colour.

Aqua Marine Plastic Cups 2 - 5 8 Pack

The soccer did not go exactly according to plan. They scored more goals than we did and therefore we do not go through. Unsurprisingly Nic and Hamish managed to injure themselves again, although the red shoes are cool. Tim also managed to sprain his ankle tonight at netball (soft) and I will probably dislocate my shoulder or something at rugby on Saturday (hard).

Good work to those three of you who managed to drag yourself away from stuff to support us. The rest of you will need to consult your tires.

I need a new joke.

Just now in Sara's flat:

Tim: Ben, are you going in and out of the closet?
Ben: I want coke.

Nice means of avoiding the innuendo. As is going to bed at 9.30PM and thus avoiding any possible form of innuendo. Especially good kind. Not that staying up late has necessarily worked wonders.... Anyway, quit listening to Frank Hayden on talkback and reclaim your hobbling life. You know who you are.

This is good. Laptop on knee and me listening and laughing at (never with)Ben, Tim and Sara. Who need thesis? Incidentally it is going quite well and providing I don't find myself watching Tim and Ben play some lame playstation game in the middle of the afternoon too often I think I'll be on track. To, you know, finish. Finished a detailed, revised (10th edition) thesis plan - target word count between 36 and 44,000 words excluding footnotes etc. Which is good. Bonsai!

In Debating apparently we have a speech competition that has, as prizes, 'plenty of booty, shiny trophies and plenty of serious cash'. You know I'm there. Then I can fund my own talkback show and be able to have conversations with old man X.

AMPC solid

It has been a while between blogs and a number of things have happened. Nic has rediscovered to keyboard and is actually blogging. Ben has reinvented the blog as the forum for classic comedic novellas. Nice. Tim has gone into hiding. Or perhaps since his thesis to a large extent defined his place in the space-time continuum, he no longer exists. Damn hippy. And Si saw Gomez. Am jealous and am secretly hoping that all the American twinkies he's been secretly eating have made him bigger than Michael Moore.

The Aqua Marine Plastic Cups have stormed into the semi finals of the Wednesday indoor soccer lead. Ha. Take that, Putteridge High. Our mixture of rugged good looks, skill, talent and Corey have combined into a largely unstoppable force for self-interested good. We each have our own unique role as outlined below.

DS (me): striker. Combines a large mass with deceptive acceleration and a complete disregard for the laws of gravity and/or physics to be one of the leading goalscorers of the team and (because it is my blog and I'll say what I want) of the competition.

Corey: Captain and Midfield. Utilizes insane level of fitness to run around a lot and generally arrives in the right place at right time to score goals or piss off the shorter members of the opposition.

Tim: Defense and Goal. Uses the 'weasel' method of defense. That is, acts like an epilectic weasel in front of the bunny with the ball. Bunny confused, weasel swoops in for the ball/knee of bunny. Has famously lead to short old gnomish man picking fight with 6'6" Tim.

Mike: Defense and Goal. The disaffected youth pin up of the team, Mike often uses his natural soccer skills with contact lenses to frustrate and block the oppositions offensive offense. Then again, sometimes he neglects to wear contacts and runs at anything that moves.

Nic: Midfield. One of the most effective attacking options of AMPC, Nic has not been utilized often enough. Sadly this is because he is soft and often breaks. Hopefully he will be fit to play in the Semi's on Wednesday with his new and shiny red shoes.

Hamish. Midfield and Goal. The enforcer of the team, Hamish's famed aggression and refusal to back down has lead to several incidents with opposition players and the ref. Voted most likely to interfere with someone's ability to breathe, Hamish often combines well up front with DS or Corey.

Dave M. Goal and right flank. Gets the ball out of the goal faster than the opposition ever expects, this old man can run circles around most of the even older men who play on a Wednesday. His skills in soccer are sadly offset by his fanatical support of Everton FC.

Amanda. Cheerleader. Unsure if Amanda comes to support the team play soccer, or encourage an English style football hooliganism. Might explain Hamish. Has stated that AMPC isn't as bad as she thought we would be.

The semi is at 6.30, Action Indoor Sports, Wednesday. We are playing at Old Trafford, which is the big stadium in the outside building. Awesome. We want and need supporters and if you don't come I know some people who know some people who slit some tires.

Dagnamit

I did blog yesterday, and on my clipboard it comes up as being posted. It does not, however, appear to have posted correctly. No matter. Not the best post anyway, lacking all of my sparkling wit - or whatever it is you people come to my site to read. Personally, I have my suspicions. Procrastinators! Go do some work. Except for you, Ben and Tim. Go look for a job and stop eating up my hard earned tax dollars.

This looks cool. This looks cooler.

In breaking news It appears a ceasefire has been signed between TBALC and the United States after the fall of Honolulu last night. Details are sketchy, however it appears that one of the key points was for a Musical to be performed on Broadway. Confirmed stars include Vin Diesel as Tim, Matt Damon as Si, Ben Affleck as Nic, Dylan Moran as Ben and Orlando Bloom will cameo as Charlina. In Britain Si has appointed Charlie the Earl of Wessex - who has controversially stated that the 'We' in 'Wessex' is silent. Bush has stated that Tim and Ben are not losers. More to follow.

Anyway....

Things I didn't expect to read

Greece 1 Portugal 0
An American visitor finding my site with this search.
A Malaysian visitor finding my site with this search. Everyone should eat at Dave.
Two words. 'Life coach'.

I can't really be assed. Have flu. Don't care. Go the black caps.

Sign of the Apocalypse

I have it on good authority that Tim will submit today - and (more importantly) the registry will accept it. So in a premature outburst that hopefully will not come back to hurt me I say 'Awesome'. I believe TBALC will soon alter its constitution to include having a Masters thesis.

But if we take the event of Tim finishing his thesis and examine it on a global scale, what does this mean for the people? Well, firstly, it is one of the signs that the apocalypse is nigh.

Other recent signals have included:
Ben getting a real life girlfriend.
Charlie getting a real life girlfriend.
Nic not having a girlfriend.
Si is in the States but is not yet fat (enough).
James has a 'long term positioning strategy' - yet included comments....
US Supreme Court laying the smack over the Bush admin.
Mark actually stating the (creepy creepy) obvious.

Personally, I'm hoping that the four apocalyptic horsemen turn out to be hollow chocolate bunnies.

Secondly, it seriously undermines the superstructure of the political science department. Not many people are aware that Tim is actually a crucial support beam after having the department built around him. Now they will only have structure....

Thirdly, the NIAA will have the smack laid on it, Tim styles.

Finally, registry can go home with their tires not being slit. This is probably good for all concerned.

Regardless of the immediate and long term impact of the event, big ups to the big man.

Hmmm

The good thing about being gutted is that your waistline improves.