Dukka goes like

Damn that's good.

Until we ran out of bread (pide for preference, but it'll make anything taste good really) I'd eaten dukka for every meal for a day and a half. Of course some spell it "duqqa", but I don't trust words in which the letter Q is not immediately followed by U. It's just not anglo saxon enough for my tastes.

I'm feeling really sorry to have broken up the comment fest that was going on back there, but the page became too big to be viewed on my phone. Not that phone-browser compatibility still holds the same importance for me now that I've fixed my net problems and have not one, but two (2) functioning athlonXP systems, but I am nothing if not accomodating for the kiddies.

Oh yes, did I mention I have a new computer? I didn't? Well you're probably not my friend then, because Whoo! I have a new computer.

The circumstances for the new system procurement weren't the happiest possible, but spending fatish wads of cash on technological stuff always brings a smile to my face. So I was probably smiling rather broadly when I picked up one of these, to plug in to one of these along with some of this.
It was also my first ever purchase of this lovely new technology, and it was all wrapped up within a cheap-but-definitely-not-nasty-case, like so.

New flatmate extrordinaire Al helped me to put all the fiddly little jumper connected wire thingies onto their correct places, and after shitloads of stuffing around, resetting, swearing, and about 10 iterations of the windows XP installation screen (installation of an operating system onto a serial ATA drive is slightly more difficult than I would have thought, but still pretty easy) I now have 2 (two) workstation-esq computers. Go me.

As alluded to above I also have two (2) new flatmates (one of whom is Al, the other Luke). Both of whom I met at college (blerk) and both of whom rock out to the max (yay). We had our very first house excursion last weekend, catching Architecture in Helsinki and the sexlicious Ponyloaf at The Healer.

Since then I have been to more music (Death Cab for Cutie and Something for Kate @ the Arena), seen Rowland (at DCFC + SFK @ Arena), slept a lot, ate dukka, played with Princess Jade, slept, ate dukka, moved my desk and huge chunks of computer gear (along with Jade) to New Farm, slept some more, and now... It's Jade time again.

Tonight it's Rachie's going-to-Melbourne party. She's going to work at the new Dogstar store, because Masayo rocks, and just happens to be the girlfriend of Rach's brother, who just happens to be the man (myth? who can know) who did the soundtrack for the film of rotoscoping love. Which, I should remind myself, will be available for downloading in DivX format or something Real Soon Now™

Tomorrow, back in Bris. I really need pizza.

Christ jay. Shut the fuck up.

<3

Ha. You said “cumin”.

I'd love to stay around and rant about how surreal it would be being a baby (5 brand new fuck off senses, liquids spewing out of orifices you didnt even know you had and all these huge strange people talking gibberish and spinning you around) but theres someone in here irritating me. Shes talking on her phone. Shes saying things like “babes” and “kewl”. She's been saying goodbye for a good 20 minutes now, so I've lost all hope that shes about to shut the fuck up. I could block it out if she didn't have such an irritating voice and laugh, but it just pierces my skull and zones straight in on the part of my brain that makes me Angry Dave.

All she'd have to do is look over and she'd see this. She'd read how I want her to shut up or fuck off. But she wont. Because she's talking to her - probably equally as naff - friends.

One of the things I miss the most about my own internet connection is that there was no one around giving me the shits.

Also, its friday. I'm going to grab some rum and get a little high. Then a spunky young girl is coming round and shes going to let me play with her stick with fire on the end. Which will be cool until I set my hair/clothes on fire.

Remember kiddies - coffee and showers wont sober you up. Cocaine will.

Enjoy your weekend.

Sorry Dave, I think I may have gotten a little carried away with the typing there.

I hope you didn't burn off too many of your dreads and prevent happy rasta comments.

And now, back to the Dr Dave Show

I'm sorry jay. The public still love you. I'm just a sideshow attraction.

Tonight - pot, cocaine, rum and jelly wrestling...

Yay.

Nonononono, au contraire Dave. They love you, now make with the postmonkey.

First of all, an important life tip to all: How to shave with a straight razor without cutting bits of your head off and pissing blood all over the room.

Its easy - get someone else to do it. I did yesterday, and straight razor shaves are win. Its also the first shave I've had with one that didn't leave me bleeding. Of course, if I tried to shave the back of my head with one, I would stop living pretty quickly, so I wouldn't even attempt that one.

Last night was looking to be a total complicated pain in the arse. I was waiting around in a cafe for fire breathing girl to finish work and come back to my place for some drugs and music. I already had lots of THC sexing my canaboid receptors. Or whatever the fuck it does.

But I stepped outside for an SMS frenzy with my ex girlfriend, who was quite upset about something and validly so. Unfortunatly, we were both piss poor and couldn't afford to ring each other. Counciling people via SMS when you know each message could be your last is very very hard. There was the fact that I was very soon going to have company and the whole situation was going to be difficult to explain and not exactly something I could just end/ignore.

Then I met a crazy old aboriginal.

He originally approached me quite loudly asking if I was a racist. After a bit of a chat he decided I indeed wasn't a racist and I stopped being scared he was going to hit me with whatever blunt object was in his little black bag.

Then just when I was feeling comfortable with the situation again, he burst into tears and started crying. He was one of the stolen generation. He got taken away from his parents and never actually managed to see them again. So he cried about his parents and he told me how he didn't want to live anymore. I told him I was sorry and that yes it did indeed suck to be him, but he shouldn't go killing himself because it would make me feel somewhat bad about doing a piss poor job of consoling him. I had no fuckin idea what to say and I had no fuckin idea what to say to my ex girlfriend either and the SMS frenzy was still going strong while I tried to deal with all of this.

Then Mr. Aboriginal cheered up quite a lot. He put his arm around me and encouraged me to sit down in the gutter with him. He showed me what was in his little black bag. A cheap bottle of white wine. He wanted me to open it for him. With a key.

“Fuck that for a joke” said doctor dave, walking back into the cafe to retrieve a bottle opener while the crazy black man smoked one of my cigarettes.

So I sat in the gutter with this guy, trying to wrestle one of those fuckin stupid rubber corks from this bottle, trying to make an ex girlfriend feel better, trying to smoke my cigarette. If I counted the queer looks I got this time it would have been a fuckin lot.

I couldn't open the goddamn bottle. Fuck I hate those rubber corks. I'm a skinny little weak person. How the fuck am I meant to open this?

My good crazy black friend (probably kods) kept talking to me while I made up some colourful terms for this bottle of wine. He told me how he worked for the government. He showed me all of these things in his little folders about aboriginals and how they've been bollocksed good by us white fellas. Then he realised where he was, that he had a friend who used to stay in the backpacker hostel above the cafe. So he went into the cafe and fetched my fire breathing friend. They went up and looked for this friend of his. He wasn't staying there anymore.

I sat in the gutter with a cheap bottle of white wine and some folders of aboriginal facts. There was also 3 cigarettes burning around on the ground and in my hand. There was only 2 of us. I couldn't remember whos was whos or where they came from or who lit them and owned them. I lit another one.

Fire breathing girl got back to work, and I kept at this motherfucking bottle.

Ol' crazy man kept talking to me and asking me questions about where I lived. He started touching me more and telling me about how he was bisexual. He turned the gay up to 11. He told me about how he wouldn't, he just did stuff like that to us young fellas to headfuck us. I told him I was flattered and if I ever wanted a homosexual interracial relationship with someone 40 years older than me and probably homeless, not to mention completely unstable, that I knew where he lived. Or thought he did. Its good to know that people think I'm hot.

I sent another SMS. I ran out of credit. I got that motherFUCKIN bottle of wine open with pure fuck off brute force. I screamed “TAKE THAT YOU FUCKIN CUNT, YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE SO FUCKIN GOOD. NO INANIMATE OBJECT IS GOING TO GET THE BEST OF MY FOR LONG YOU FUCKIN, FUCKIN, FUCKING BASTARD!”. I boosted the queer look count up by quite a bit.

So I sat in the gutter sharing some $5 wine with my new - incredibly thrilled -friend. We passed it back and forth for a while. It was crap wine. I hope he didn't notice I was wiping the top of it when it came back to me. Not that I really care if he did. He told me about how nice my arse was and asked if I wanted to come for a cone, if I wanted to kick in some money for bud. I told him I'd pass this time. He said next time he saw me we'd go for a smoke. He told me about how some fuckwit had tried to beat him up for asking the same thing he did of me. Next time I see him, I might just run away.

I went back into the cafe to return the bottle opener and escape the crazy people for a while.

I came back out. He explained to me that he was going to go home now because he was feeling very emotional. He wished me a good night, told me his name, asked mine, shook my hand, told me to have a good night again, thanked me for opening his bottle again, told me to have a good night and thanks for opening the bottle and then left.

I sat in the gutter to have a nice. quite. smoke. alone.

Which I did. Fire girl finished work. We jumped in the car and went back to mine for drugs and music and letragraphica.

She thinks I'm the coolest person she's met in sydney. I think that I AM the coolest person in sydney.

Bud, cocaine, rum, full fathom fives new album, letragraphs, someone impressed by my art and dry wit, friends, more rum, back streets, bottle shops, bars, more bud, more music and a crash to the ground.

It was a pretty good night.
I hope the crazy aboriginal enjoyed it just as much.

What's new FF5 like? I had a bit of a look but couldn't find it. I'm thinking of going to the launch, but I may have to find another gig buddy for it, because I have a feeling that Luke is no longer very keen on them, and I have no idea where the hell that boy is.

J = In Bris, yay.

I really like the first half of the album, but I'm unsure about the second half.

I've got tickets to Hot Hot Heat + The kills and Interpol + Somebody in my pocket. Yay.

good lord that boy can type

I'm all man baby. If you were even talking about me. You probably were. Or it could just be my ego.

I had something to post, but I forgot it.

omg that sounds like the kind of thing that happened to me in london a couple of years ago, when a few old homeless guys decided to share their 12% cider with me and my mate. We ended up sitting around in the street for about 3 hours on a freezing winter night.

I'm going to HHH + Kills + Interpol + whofuckingever with Bag o Luke and Jess, sometime soonish, in Bris, love peace etc.

Fairy was quite obviously talking about Senator Richard Alston (esq), He can type like a crazy bitch.

I still hunger for dukka. Stupid New Farm coles didn't have any coriander seeds, or volumes of sesame seed below 500g, so I told them, I told them to suck the peen with much gusto.

yayayayay interpol mmmmsexsexsex iwanttosexyointerpolallthetime mmm and turnpike are supporting the interpol!! yayayaya. dont get me started on other bands yet. mmmm. and jay, its okay cos newfarm coles has singles nights on tuesdays where theres all these little codes according to what you have in your basket to tell people what you are into ;) so its not all bag. and you can get sesame and corriander from the deli next door. *mwah*

new farm coles has a good asian food section. I likee

We always get stares there.

Probably because usually when we go shopping (3 guys) we make sure we get the "extra-wide" trolley and spend over 300 every time. All the check-out staff know us because we spend so god-damned much - our record is $414 (required 2 full trolleys)

always beautiful women at that coles too

me!!

yes you!

Haven't been here for a while have I? You missed me kiddies? Of course you did, because if you didn't I'll punch you in the mouth.

Dreadlocks. They hang from my head. They're cool. Lots of people say 'Nice dreads'. You want them. Lots of people say 'I want dreads'.

But dreads are not all fun an games. Occasionally, they are a pain in the cock.

My dreads hang in my face in their natural state. You dont really appreciate how much you use your face until you cant get at it. You're always shoving food in it and looking at shit through it and stuff. Anything that is in your face can become intensely annoying. Bonus points if they're a gang member.

Drinking coffee. I tuck my dreads back behind my ear when I'm drinking coffee. But occasionally they'll escape from there and go about making me look like a fucko. Generally by falling into my coffee froth. But beverage contamination is only the beginning. Because once you notice that your dread is soaking in coffee, your brain sends a signal to your neck saying 'Get your hair out of your drink you silly fuck'. It does this before your smart bit of brain stops it. So you flick your dreads out. But they come back. And hit you in the face. And proceed to distribute froth and coca about your face. Dave looks like a fuckwit. Mission accomplished.

Same thing applys with food of course. But generally with food you end up eating a dreadlock by accident. They don't taste all that brilliant.

Fancy yourself as a bit of a dreaded artist? Well fuck that son. Paint and dreads dont work well together.

As for fucking, they get in the way. Like all hair, it just has no place in sex. But unlike all hair, dreads have some blinding power. They can be 1000 times more annoying. Its why I haven't had sex for ages. Because I don't want to cut off my hair. Or something.

Theres plenty more I could go on about, like branches + dreadlocks = pain + humiliation or just generally getting shit stuck in them trying to rip them out. But I wont. Because none of it is particuarly funny.

**

2 shots vodka, 1 medium joint.
Home from a 11 hour warehouse stint. Pizza in hand, wondering why the fuck I am going to veruca salt tonight. Tired.

3 rum and cokes.
The Metro Theatre. My favorite venue. A favorite friend. Some other people. Some $3 grog. I started to remember one of the reasons I came. Skulker were supporting. Skulker are lucky enough to be daves friends.

3 shots of tequila with lemon and salt.
Yeah. I'm warm. I'm stoned and happy and clueless. I wan't to be here now. I've gotten everyone around me drunk.

1 rum and coke.
Skulker are about to come on. Through the ticket people, into the crowd, trying to to spill my drink. Talking. Excitment. Alcohol. Skulker are going off, something I'd forgotten they could actually do. They're giggling because they love veruca salt.

1 rum and coke. 1 small joint.
Skulker were musicly sexy. Quick run to the bar and then camping the front rows waiting for veruca salt to come on. Wondering why I care.

Veruca salt come on. Louise has really let herself go. Veruca salt start rocking quite hard. Veruca salt played seether. Veruca salt played a nirvana cover. Veruca salt played shutterbug. Dave got happy.

1 rum and coke
Encore. 2 tear-jerker songs done solo by louise. Quite impressive.

1 shot of rum.
Snuck back stage. No fuckin idea whats going on. Talked to louise. She didn't really want to be talking to me. Possibly making very little sense.

Tried to pick up the bass playing kiwi chick. Possibly because she was wearing a fishnet top with X's of tape over her nipples.

Didn't work.

Tried to pick up some random chick who was back there. Didn't try very hard.

Didn't work.

1 tab of acid, 1 rum and coke.
Licking my little bit of cardboard with rainbow dolphins on it. Not quite sure what the fuck is going on. Can't understand what anyone is saying. Probably tried to pick up sexy looking furniture.

Didn't work.

2 shots of vodka
Running out of cash. Bars, bus, back to daves. Gotta go to work in 4 hours. Not quite sure whats real and isnt. Don't really give a fuck.

1 tooheys new. 1 large joint.
Passing round a blunt with 3 of my friends. Giggling my tits off at the things in my brain. I'm talkin. People are laughing. I can't understand what I'm saying, maybe I wasn't talking.

Fuck. Late for work. Haven't slept. Haven't showered. Haven't sobered up.

11 hours in a warehouse.

1 rum and coke.
Internet cafe.

Its where I've been baby.

All I was looking for was a dukka recipe. But thanks you lot, I remember now there is much more to life than fine wine and 'quality' olive oil. Cheers. Lesley