No, no it's not dead it's resting...

In order to get to play group, Henry and I generally cut across the lower fields of Geilston Bay High School. I have noted something on these fields for the past two months, but have thus far failed to secure a decent photograph.

That didn't change today, but I am noe prepared to settle for something less than a decent photograph.

Can you see them?

Look closer.

Click on the picture to enlarge it if you like.

See it now?

Yes, as I posted some time ago, the birdies are back!



Eastern Rosellas, to be precise. Here you can see the two that I got closest too.



And here were a bunch hanging around just behind them. I'd guess that there are maybe a good thirty or forty that have taken up residence directly across the road from us. Them and a huge mob of cockatoos, numerous 'plovers' (well, 'banded lapwings' to be precise), and quite a few breeding pairs of magpies. It's not a bad scene each morning.

It's chocolate cake Jim, but not as we know it...

You may have seen some of these 'quick cakes' floating around these here Internets lately. I had, and was rather sceptical. Throwing caution to the wind, and with an narky toddler and wife to keep happy, I wanted to see if I could make a chocolate cake in under ten minutes.

Cherry picking from three of four recipes, I settled on the following combo:

INGREDIENTS

8 Tablespoons self raising flour
8 Tablespoons sugar
5 Tablespoons cocoa
1 Egg
6 Tablespoons milk
5 Tablespoons oil
1 Microwave-proof container

METHOD

Mix the dry ingredients.

Add the egg.

Pour in milk and oil, and mix well.

Put in microwave for six minutes on maximum.

Turn out on cooling tray.

EAT!

And do you know what? It actually worked. We had a nice, firm and moist cake ready to go. I reckon that it would work pretty well with a ganache with a bit of cream on the side. I didn't get a photo, because this mob demolished it too quickly for me.

But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother.

Apologies for the late posting today, but I was otherwise occupied out at Hobart’s TECHNOPARK with the bigwigs from HQ, looking to solve all of the problems in our small part of the world. Unsurprisingly, my easy-going and gregarious nature (coupled with the tendency towards being an opinionated know-it-all) ensured that I was chosen as spokesperson for a number of the ‘breakout’ groups. This is just what you want when you’re on famine rations of sleep due to a new baby. I’d like to think that I battled manfully through the pain.

However, I do not want to talk about that this evening. I want to talk about the TECHNOPARK. I know what you must be thinking, but no, the TECHNOPARK is not some sort of supersized converted cattle shed cramming in the kids and pumping in equal parts bitchin’ beats, strobe lights and a cocktail of ketamine, ecstasy, methamphetamine laced with generous dosages of Viagra. No that’s not what the TECHNOPARK is about. [That said, a touch of this may have livened up proceedings somewhat.]

NO. TECHNOPARK is more a kind of gated community for boffins, eggheads, experts and skilled practitioners across the field. Think of it as an intelligence hub for high falutin’ ideas and creative responses to complex problems. It is a place for forward planning, future proofing, skilling up, problem solving, naming up, action items, blue-sky thinking, taking ownership, core competencies, strengthening linkages, best practices, deepening engagement, broadening directions, critical masses, narrowing focus, establishing pathways, integrating services, unpacking ideas, gaining traction, quality assurance, evidence based practice, decentralising knowledge bases, empowering from below and leadership from above. Most of all, it is about thinking the unthinkable.

I am sure that you can imagine how that went. That said, I did enjoy my time at TECHNOPARK tremendously. Located in Hobart’s norther suburbs, on a beautiful stretch of the Derwent River, it features the astonishing juxtaposition of untainted wilderness on the magnificent eastern shore (where I live), and the rugged heavy industrial moonscapes of the western shore (where they live). Environment, industry and right in the middle you have TECHNOPARK: the future, and the hope for all of Tasmania’s children. Here we are solving all the problems of the world (with tea, coffee and light refreshments).

It was a very empowering experience.

No one rises so high as he who knows not whither he is going

I am at work again today, so this will be brief.

Ever since Henry found out that Mary, Crown Princess of Denmark, is a Tasmanian, he has assumed a regal air about his manner. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but now that it has got the point that he is threatening beheadings because his pureed fruit is too fruity, I am concerned.

If I were to encourage him into royalty however, where do you think would be a good fit? The Swedes are appealing, as they are lookers and seem pleasant enough. The pickled herring and manufactured Euro-pop is a slight turn-off though.

Ils sont fous ces Romains!

I was pleasantly surprised to see this fellow stencilled outside of Rosny library yesterday. I am not the biggest fan of graffiti, but can tolerate it if it looks halfway decent. In this way, I quite like some of the complex stencilling that appears from time to time around Hobart and its environs.

Even better when some of my fondest memories as a young ‘un involve the adventures of the heroic Asterix and his band of hardy Gauls. I will confess to having some Roman sympathies, and if I am truly honest, I was always more of an Obelix-man, due to my terribly unreasonable and unfair distaste for unusually short men.

That said, I have read every one of Goscinny and Uderzo’s comics. I also look forward to a time when Henry and Ezra will get into them (and thus give me to unashamedly re-read them all). If you’ve not given them a go, and don’t mind some of the anti-Belgian humour, visit the local library and check them out!

Time Travel: or, On the omnipresence of American culture on a pretty standard Australian 31 year old

So Henry has invented this time machine, so I’ve gone back and for some reason that I can only put down to tiredness, I keep getting snapped for American high school yearbooks. I thought that I would share some with you.

Here I am in 1970, majoring in Economics and sporting a healthy side part. I support the war in Vietnam, but am prepared to lie about it to impress girls. I shall never leave a University once I enter it. I am not proud of that.

Here I am in 1976. I am a Drama major, as the skivvy will attest. I am quite the ladies man. Secretly, however, I lust after the captain of the men’s water polo team. I will get a gig in reasonably successful syndicated sitcom in the 1980s, and will milk that until death. I am confused about how that makes me feel.

Here I am in 1978. I am more interested in smoking pot than my Art major, but I do draw lots and lots of cartoons featuring evil goblins tying up vixens with enormous breasts. I will live with my ‘Mom’, really get interested in The Internet, and become a regular poster to Dungeons and Dragons message boards, where my gross obesity does not hinder me. I think that that is pretty cool.

Here I am in 1986. I think that my combination Business/Computer Science major will make me rich. Of course I am right, but will it make me happy? Another trip in the time machine tells me that although wealth won’t make me happy, the yacht off Catalina, the bevy of beautiful women and mountain of cocaine kind of make me forget about that. I am rather proud of that.

Here I am in 1996. I am captain of the ‘Track’ team and have a scholarship in Wrestling, Football and Lacrosse. Unfortunately a disgruntled nerd took exception to my novel take on ‘encouragement’ in the hallway and ensured that I never made college. I think that this is a bummer.

[Now, you can choose to believe that whole ‘time travel’ thing, or you can go along to the Yearbook Yourself website and get cracking on your own photos.]

L’État, c’est moi

Even though he has pretty much kept Jen and I up all night (and slept though most of the days for the past week), we still reckon that he is rather lovely.

I am starting to get the feeling that all babies have dictatorial leanings. Alternatively – at the very least – all of my babies have dictatorial leanings. All that I can pray for is a benevolent dictatorship.

Dancing is not a crime

Number two in today's 'tired' series, here we can see four feet. I wear size fourteen shoes, and struggle for choice in footwear. I would wager that both Henry and Ezra will wear size sixteen or above, and will probably be stuck with cardboard boxes stuffed with rags for shoes.

It shall be a hard life.

[In a quick reader response, I can announce that Ezra is up to 3.9 kilograms, up from 2.9 birth weight. That would be down to the non-stop feeding.]

I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink. I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink.

I didn't get more than half hour straight sleep last night, so forgive the lack of narrative. I'll let the pictures do the talking instead.

Look at this face. It is the face on an angel.

How could an angel sound like the devil ALL NIGHT LONG is what I want to know.

I shall endevour to post more throughout the day, or at least I shall order the robot to do it.

All wars are civil wars because all men are brothers

The mysterious Jennifer makes one of her rare appearances in the Photo of the day bit, headlining with the banana-munching Henry. They are catching a few winter's rays checking out a book while Ezra concentrates on his sit ups, chin-ups and crunches in the next room. I think that he's preparing for a tilt at Ultimate Fighting, but he's keeping his cards close to his chest.

Seeing the littlest bloke in the house prepare so diligently, I cast some thoughts over some of the nasty business currently going on in the Caucuses. The present position of Georgia reminds me of a fellow that I used to go to school with (some years ago now). A hot blooded fellow, little more than five foot tall, he spoke a good game. Easily led, on occasion a number of older colleagues would manage to convince him that he could 'take down' some of the bigger, nastier lads (I'm talking about dudes with attitudes and runs on the board).

Naturally, he would choose the patented little bloke move of "whack above the ear from behind" to start things off, and then would promptly be pummeled into a bloody pulp in quick time. Although such spectacles attracted a crowd at my school, it was generally an uneasy one who knew that a small bloke with pluck had little chance against a bruiser with form.

He generally fought like a tiger, but there are only so many blows that a fellow can take. Eventually the white flag would rise and hand offered to call it a day. Only, this bloke didn't seem to grasp the concept that dictates that if you attempt the old king hit on the big bloke, but fail, there is a fair chance he's going to want to extract a bit of revenge the old fashioned way.

Of course, many chose to admire this guy's grit and determination to take on the challenge (particularly those who felt under the thumb of the biggun), but I must admit to shaking my head at the foolishness of such an endevour. The point is to avoid going the knuckle (especially when you are the weaker one), think your way around whatever your problem is rather than give the bigger fellow an excuse to whack you one (or ten).

I am certain that Mikheil Saakashvili didn't go to Parklands High with the fellow that I've been thinking about. If he did, he would have surely learned that lesson that his actions appear to confirm that he has not.

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As someone who was aware of his own shortsightedness from a young age, but a combination of ego and vanity compelled me to hide the fact until the age of seventeen. Let's just say that a range of excuses were called upon to explain away a seeming unwillingness to do all of the "copying off the blackboard" that seemed to encapsulate a fair whack of my time at school. That said, I'd like to think that the creativity of my evasions coupled with an enthusiastic zest for challenging authority ensured that teachers - whatever they happened to think of me - never thought me dull

What I like most about the above public service announcement are the implications of poor little John passing his optical examination with flying colours. Really, there would be a certain pride in finally excelling at something, but this would come at the realisation that, yes Johnny, you really are as dumb as a box of hammers.

Life has improved, comrades. Life has become more joyous.

Someone approached Henry in the supermarket this morning and asked, "is it a boy or girl?" Yes, this is a fellow who makes Steve McQueen look like Anne of Green Gables, Rambo look like Mary Poppins and (in an Olympic theme) Crocodile Dundee look like Ian Thorpe (too cruel?)

All I can say is that if you are confusing Henry's sex at twenty-one months, God help you with all but little pink bundles covered in glitter complete with angel's wings attached!

Today's photo features the two comrades sharing a joke and a manly hug. They are getting on like a house on fire, but Ezra appears to be picking up some of the distinctly Henry traits that we've come to know and love tolerate: an enormous appetite; the will power of a willful donkey; and the volume of a 747 jet upon take-off.

It's a good thing that they are so lovely!